


One For The Road

by MiniSouffleCafe



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, F/M, POV Clara Oswin Oswald, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-05-25 22:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 87,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14986580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniSouffleCafe/pseuds/MiniSouffleCafe
Summary: Of all the things Clara prepared for in her career, a cancelled flight from San Francisco to New York was not one of them. Nor did she anticipate John Smith, an intrepid medical student with a nonsensical plan to get them across the country. Two strangers. One eccentric blue sports car. And three thousand miles of uncharted territory, with a few detours along the way.





	1. The Red-Eye Flight

Out of all the words that could be used to describe Clara Oswald, punctual was not one of them.

Granted, it was never of her own accord. In fact, she considered herself to be a keen strategist and thus orchestrated her days to a tee; she had a planner with matching pens and everything. _Confirm meeting at one. Pack for New York at eight. Order a taxi at nine._

Except she wasn't going anywhere, at least not tonight. And _especially_ not with the airport station attendant maintaining the most fraudulent smile the young woman had ever seen.

" _Cancelled?!_ " Clara balked in her face, hands gripping the information desk in a caffeinated frenzy, as if doing so would somehow retract the attendant's previous statement. "What do you mean by cancelled?"

Exasperation was clear as day on the receiving end of Clara's shock, the clerk arranging her face into a polite, tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "According to my screen here, Miss Oswald, Flight 1112 to New York has been cancelled due to a delay in aircraft maintenance. I apologize for the inconvenience, but please understand that we have no direct control over the situation."

Clara was acutely aware of that. But it still didn't prevent her from tossing the blame onto the most immediate person, and it just so happened to be the messenger whose words were fully capable of obliterating her to pieces. She had a plan, a well-thought out, reasonably attainable plan, and she would _not_ , under any circumstances, have it be disabled due to _aircraft maintenance._ What did that even mean?

She was starting to feel a sweltering oncome of emotions: denial, perplexity, a tinge of lightheadedness. "W-Well, is there any way I can get booked for the next immediate flight? You see, I'm in a bit of a hurry—"

"I'm afraid a seat on our next direct flight isn't available until Friday morning," the clerk informed her, punching a few numbers into her keypad at an excruciating slowness. "If you're willing, we can book you on a red-eye to Omaha tonight, and connect you to a Wednesday evening flight to Newark."

"Omaha?"

"In Nebraska," the woman replied, unfazed. Perhaps it was Clara's accent, or the fact that her passport was red instead of blue, but there was no trouble discerning her as a tourist among the sea of haggard passengers wandering aimlessly about San Francisco International Airport, where the clock had just struck eleven o'clock at night. A myriad of planes blinked sleepily beyond the fiberglass of the terminal, lazily pulling into their gates to whisk travelers away into the dead of night. Out of all the people in this airport, why did she have to be placed in the unlucky lot? Was there some sort of universal lottery that decided this?

"No, no, that wouldn't work out," Clara muttered to herself more than anyone else, fidgeting with the silver band that was tightly secured around her middle finger. All things considered, her mother's ring was her only source of security in this moment. "Are there any other possible options? If someone fails to show up to one of the other flights, could I take their seat?"

"All of our current flights headed there are already overbooked, so even if I did add you to the waiting list, a chance at leaving here tonight would be little to none," the clerk said with pursed lips. Her expression resembled that of Clara's primary school teacher—annoyed, weary, and utterly fed up with her persistence. But Clara couldn't help herself. These past few weeks had been dedicated to the fabrication and perfection of this trip, and to see it all crumble before her eyes was enough to urge her to tears.

"Look," she said, drawing in a sharp breath. "I write for a living. I publish my own anecdotes online and pray to God that they take me somewhere, and once, _just this once_ , I've caught the attention of someone who might _actually_ take me seriously. That person is on the other side of this country, and they've agreed to meet with me Wednesday afternoon." Clara was on the verge of kneeling if meant her departure from San Francisco tonight, that's how desperately she needed this to work out. "Is there _any_ way I can make it there on time?"

Silence emitted from the airport attendant like oxygen might escape a house plant.

" _Please,_ " Clara begged, resting her forehead on the cool counter top, as if it would soothe her frazzled mind from the nightmare that was this flight, or lack thereof. "I don't care how I get there, I just need to."

The clerk's face was totally devoid of sympathy, for she had likely heard a replica of this exact story coming from the mouths of several other abandoned passengers, hence contributing to the signs of early aging on her face. Clara wanted to pity her, but was too busy pitying herself to even realize that another traveler had drawn up his bags behind her, patiently waiting for her to extinguish the melodrama she had created and step aside.

"It's either the Thursday flight, Omaha, or you get a rental and drive to New York yourself. Those are your only options," the attendant said with a note of finality in her voice, dismissing her without another word.

 _That's it,_ Clara thought to herself, feeling the dread overcome every inch of her body. _I'm done for._

Blinking back the few tears that were surely a precursor for the oncoming sob, Clara clutched her travel pillow and suitcase, and removed herself from the counter like a general in defeat. Turning around, she finally noticed the man standing there, and stopped short. He was truly a sight to behold, but for the most peculiar of reasons.

For one, there was a red passport clutched between his teeth, as his hands were frantically trying to reattach a pair of suspenders to his trousers, a disheveled green jacket hanging loosely around his lanky frame. His hair, brown like hers, was fluffed out in all directions, as if it couldn't decide on one to gravitate towards. And was that... a bow-tie hanging around his neck? Clara had never seen such a man attempt to dress so formally for a red-eye flight.

His eyes latched onto hers for a millisecond before he spoke, his voice muffled behind the passport in his mouth. "Rough day?"

The question was thoughtful, sympathetic. And yet Clara couldn't help but imagine what she must have looked like to him right now. Five foot one and crying, she never stood a chance.

"I could ask the same of you," was all she said, her voice wobbly. The stranger looked down at himself and grimaced.

"TSA," he explained, his left suspender snapping from the waistband of his slacks, nearly putting his eye out. Clara jolted. "Scary lot, they are. I was standing there for twenty minutes while they inspected me like I was Dave Franco."

"Why Dave Franco?"

He looked at her, puzzled. "Have you not seen that movie?"

"Excuse me," the airport attendant interjected the conversation with a punctuated sigh. "Did you have a concern, sir? I'm leaving in five."

The stranger glanced over to the woman behind the counter, as if he now realized what he was here for. "Ah, yes!" he exclaimed, spitting out his passport and catching it with one hand. He smiled at Clara before gathering his belongings strewn around him: a backpack, a computer bag, and a hat box. "It was nice talking to you," he said, before drawing himself nearer to the counter. Her cue to leave.

Dragging along her suitcase, she sat down in the row of empty seats adjacent to her assigned gate; the area had been quickly vacated after the attendant's announcement that the flight had been cancelled just minutes ago. Slumping in defeat of her botched plans, she pulled her dark red beanie over her eyes and willed this all to go away, this horrifying situation in which there was no way out. She'd miss the interview if she took one of the later flights, and there was no way in hell she was driving herself across a country she had only stepped foot on a few days ago. Every option was a poor one, and she couldn't even fathom the consequence of each.

 _Calm down, Clara,_ she told herself, allowing her logic to take over. _You've got this all under control._

Except she didn't. She didn't have any control whatsoever. And it made her head spin just thinking about it.

She needed sustenance. She needed it to prevent herself from unleashing the sob that was slowly and treacherously building itself within her chest, to get her mind back on track, to plan the hell out of these next forty-eight hours in which she would need to somehow transport herself across the United States of America. She could do this; she was Clara Oswald. Master planner. Control freak. Major in organizational skills.

It wasn't impossible. Nothing was.

Or so she tried to convince herself.

Grabbing her suitcase with a newfound fervor found only in the remnants of the coffee she had downed just two hours before, Clara was determined to make things work. She'd just have to be creative. Her mother told her that she could do anything she set her mind to; now she just had to believe in that statement. So the young woman wheeled herself down the airport terminal as quickly as her legs could carry her, trying to locate the nearest café, as well as a silver lining to this entire situation.

* * *

It was nearing eleven-thirty, and Clara hadn't the faintest idea of how to approach this.

She was seated at the airport's only 24-Hour coffee shop, a quaint little place called _Espresso Express_ , situated on the same wing as her abandoned flight gate. Her laptop was open before her, the search engine drawn up and ready to go, a chocolate soufflé (purchased purely out of stress) already half-eaten to her left. What on earth was she supposed to Google? _Hitchhiking for beginners. Non-stop train rides to NYC._ _How to escape San Francisco._

An article on the Alcatraz Island prisoners appeared upon that last search, and it was then when Clara truly began to lose hope. Spooning a generous amount of soufflé into her mouth, she downed it with the rest of her water, and lay her head on the table in exhaustion. Perhaps if she just phoned Wayfarer Industries and informed them of her dilemma, they'd allow her to reschedule her interview to this weekend. Perhaps the solution to all of this was genuinely as simple as that.

 _And ruin their first impression of you?_ A small yet wicked voice worked its way into her head, manipulating her thoughts. _You're lucky you even landed an interview with them at all. Wednesday is your one and only chance before they label you tardy and irresponsible for good._

Clara couldn't risk tarnishing whatever standard she currently upheld with her and the potential patron of her website, so she pushed the thought to the back of her mind, praying for some sort of miracle to reveal itself to her this very moment.

The door to the café jingled open, Clara lifting her head from its place on the table. It was the man she saw at the information help desk. He had fixed his hair since the last time she'd seen him; it was now styled into a quiff that seemed to defy all laws of physics, and his clothes were in order. Looking around the place, he spotted Clara in the corner, and flashed her a quick smile before heading over to the register to order. So he remembered her.

Sighing, Clara sat fully upright, and pulled her laptop closer to her. Her father had bought it as a birthday present for her when she turned twenty, and ever since then the two had become an inseparable pair. The laptop, with its beautiful red casing and slick black keys, had been her one source of comfort, the key to her vault of creativity, the entire basis of her online career.

She had studied English Literature in university, and supposed that it had slowly integrated itself into her job, but not as much as any passion for reading and writing would have, and Clara loved both pastimes just as equally. Opening a new tab on her browser, she clicked the topmost sight and waited patiently as the airport wifi sluggishly drew her personal website onto the screen. She couldn't help but smile once it was fully loaded.

 _101 Places to See_ _,_ the title of the site gleaned in stark bold letters and a serif font. _Passenger of Earth, student for life, and reader of all things intriguing._ Her brain child since she was sixteen years-old, gradually converting itself into her full-time job. And nobody, except maybe her father and best friend Nina, knew it was her who was in charge of it.

It all began with a blog post eight years ago about a trip she had taken to Oxford University, an institution she knew she would never be accepted into, but was interested in seeing nonetheless. She wrote about her experience in vivid detail: the buildings she visited, the restaurants she ate at, the tune in which the birds sang. She wanted to document it all down so she would never forget it, and post it on the Internet to make the holiday a permanent fixture of her life. Never before had she felt more mature, as if just visiting the place was enough to inspire her to write about all the baby steps she took towards adulthood.

Developing into a fully-fledged travel-opinion blog intertwined with pieces of personal intimacy, _101 Places to See_ was named one of the top domains for lifestyle journalism in the previous year, a title that still surprised Clara even to this day. And the great thing about it was that she could write about anything her heart desired without it ever being traced back to her. For the public eye didn't associate the site with Clara at all, but with _Oswin_ , a pseudonym she had created on a whim the day she finished that Oxford article. What had once been a privacy issue had now established itself as her official disguise against the online world, an invisible sort of freedom that allowed her to speak her mind as openly as she wanted to without being judged by her peers. It was the perfect creative outlet.

Scrolling through the home page, Clara clicked on her most recent post, an overview of her visit to San Francisco, where she had tried to fit the entire city into a handful of paragraphs without sounding too chatty. _Through its thick blanket of fog and eternal autumn weather, I knew that San Francisco would capture me from the moment I stepped off the plane._ If she were being honest, it was business that had truly drawn her here, for eight businesses in the general vicinity had offered to pay her for a visit and mention in her writing. It was how she got her revenue, through travel and promotion. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Which is why she nearly cried when she heard back from Wayfarer Industries, an Internet media company whom she had emailed months ago asking to them sponsor _101 Places to See_ in return for some sort of advertisement on her behalf. It was why she was trying so desperately to get to New York City on time, for a partnership with Wayfarer meant a new wave of professionalism for Clara, a sense of legitimacy in her field. Not only would it increase her audience but allow her to travel to more places, something she was intent on doing since she was seven. She was currently living her dream so to speak, and this opportunity would only extend that ambition.

 _And now it'll never happen,_ she told herself. _Because of bloody aircraft maintenance._

She tried not to groan too loudly as she held her face in her hands, wanting nothing more but for some solution to present itself, an idea that would lead her to where she needed to be.

Someone cleared their throat in front of her. Clara froze.

"Cappuccino?" the man from the information help desk asked her, his smiling face peering at her through her fingers. Clara sat up straight and eyed him carefully. There was hardly anyone else here except for a band of student travelers in the corner wearing matching shirts, and an elderly couple trying to read the Washington Post from a tablet device. Why was he so eager to approach her?

"Is it decaf?" Clara asked him, unsure of whether or not to subject herself to another round of caffeine, for she was already tired as it is.

The stranger scoffed, as if she had just asked if the Earth was flat. "Not a chance," he said, placing the steaming mug beside her laptop and seating himself opposite her in the booth they now shared in the corner of the café. Clara raised an eyebrow at his temerity, for she wasn't exactly seeking company at the moment, and he was clearly confident enough to try and prove her otherwise.

"Did you really buy this cappuccino for me?"

"I did, yes. Okay with that?"

"Fine, yeah. Think I'm fine," she said more to herself than to him, taking a sip of the warm drink for good measure. "Thank you. How much was it so I can pay you back?"

"Not necessary," the stranger said after taking a sip out of his own mug, a regular coffee with four sugars and a generous helping of creamer. Clara was really beginning to grow suspicious at this point, for she leaned in and peered into the man's eyes, which were a warm shade of hazel that seemed almost incapable of prying away from her pressing stare.

"Why are you being so friendly to me? You barely even know me," Clara said, attempting to get to the bottom of this. "First you give me a cappuccino, then you sit next to me and make conversation. Not to mention you compared yourself to Dave Franco; there's a thing as too keen."

"It was a movie reference!" the stranger said in defense, a tinge of color appearing on his cheeks.

"Yes it is," Clara quipped, taking pride in her curiosity. " _Now You See Me 2_ ; I looked it up."

Those hazel eyes sparkled, as if he were pleased that she had found value in their initial exchange. "Well, good then. Now you know."

"But you see, you could have compared yourself to anyone in that scene," Clara smirked, recalling the movie clip of the four illusionists passing the ace of spades between each another during a particularly meticulous inspection. "Woody Harrelson, Lizzy Caplan. Why Franco? Is it because he's the good-looking one?"

"Are you saying I'm good-looking?" he asked her with a smug expression.

Now it was Clara's turn to blush.

He had the most interesting set of facial expressions, this man. It was as if every muscle in his face gravitated naturally towards a smile, even when everyone else would usually be exhausted at this time of day. Now that she sat across from him she could fully study his features, the way he played with his hands as if they couldn't stay still, his prominent jawline that accentuated an already prominent chin, and the faintest of eyebrows that raised ever so slightly when he talked to her. And yet there was a hint of sadness in his eyes, something that only revealed itself to her when she really looked. It was as if he were trying to hide that sadness by acting so rambunctious.

"What's your name?" he asked her, tipping his coffee mug back as he took a generous sip.

"Clara. Clara Oswald."

"Nice name, Clara. You should definitely keep it."

She thought back to Oswin, how she cloaked herself in the name without ever questioning it, and pushed the notion aside. She would _not_ think about work for the time being.

"And you? What's your name?" she found herself asking, staring at the foam design of her cappuccino that was gradually ebbing away with each passing sip.

"John Smith," he smiled warmly, extending his hand out for a shake. She took it. "And to answer your previous question...you looked as if you were having an off day. I wanted to see if I could help."

Clara couldn't help but feel touched at the fact that John, a complete stranger, had been kind enough to notice. "Thank you," she spoke earnestly, taking a long sip of her cappuccino, letting it fill her to the brim in lieu of the disappointment that was this entire day. "I assume your flight's been delayed? You were certainly in a hurry back there," she observed, recalling his undone bow-tie and bedraggled hair.

John waved it off with a hand. "Ah, my flight's been cancelled. Trying not to think about it too much."

"Flight 1112 to New York?" she asked, to which he nodded in response. She heaved a sigh. "You and me both, mate."

"Blimey, that woman at the help desk was _so_ irritated with me."

"I know! She couldn't stand the sight of me!" she laughed, a smile appearing on the man's face as he, too joined in her fit of giggles. "Did she give you the three options? Thursday flight, Omaha, or rental car?"

"Yes, actually," John replied, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms. "I've decided upon one of them, even."

"Oh?" Clara raised an eyebrow, closing her laptop to give full attention to the conversation. "Do intrigue me."

John pressed his lips into a thin line, finishing off the rest of his coffee before explaining to her the entirety of his plan. "It's my good friend's birthday this coming Wednesday, and I can't miss it, or else she'll kill me. Quite literally." He propped his chin up on a fist, pondering over the insanity that was to ensue over the next forty-eight hours. "She and her husband live in New York. Me being from London, I never get to see them, so this trip means a lot and I'm determined not to botch it."

Clara could tell by the determination in his eyes that him being there was something that was going to happen, no matter the distance between San Francisco and New York. It made her question the weakness in her own planning. Was she really willing to give up Wayfarer Industries that quickly, without putting in the effort that John was evidently trying to make? Both of the options that involved flying meant he'd arrive in New York past his friend's birthday, so that only meant...

"Oh my gosh. You're actually doing it," she said, eyes widening. "You're driving to New York City."

"Yep," the man said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "I've never driven on the other side of the road before, so we'll see how that goes."

Clara stared at him in awe, for though she'd never say it aloud, she was deeply impressed at how brave he was. "You're insane," was all she said, shaking her head. "I could never do that."

"Even if you had plans?"

"I always have plans," she said defensively, picking at her nails in a nervous twitch. "At least, I had plans. Before they were ruthlessly butchered by aircraft maintenance."

John laughed, readjusting his bow-tie before asking, "What kind of plans?"

The young traveler smiled back at him, a sad sort of smile that made her heart sink ever so slightly. "A job interview. I was supposed to be meeting with Wayfarer Industries Wednesday afternoon, but now...I dunno. Everything happens for a reason, I suppose."

"Nonsense," John huffed, unable to accept the fact that this woman was throwing away such an amazing opportunity at the blink of an eye. "Plans are plans, we may commit to them, we may not, but there are very few where we know it in our hearts are ours to fulfill." He was beginning to grow passionate now, his hands gesturing frenetically in the air as if to further emphasize his point. "You're going to New York City, Clara Oswald. And you will _be_ on time for that interview."

Clara finished off her cappuccino, and setting down her mug, saw but an empty void. A clear representation of her current solution to this problem. "And how do you suppose I do that?" she asked him helplessly, sitting back in the booth and folding her arms across her chest. "How do you suppose I get there on time?"

John Smith smiled at the woman across from him, and wondered how on Earth he had managed to meet anyone so witty in his life. Even when he had first seen her he had instantly been drawn by her curious, brown eyes, the way she spoke as if every word had its purpose. He knew she was a writer from what he had overheard at the help desk, and was keen to know what, exactly, she was working on. Perhaps, if she responded positively towards his next three words, he'd be able to find out.

"Come with me."


	2. Manifest Destiny

_**Manifest Destiny: The 19th-Century belief that the expansion of the United States was both justified and inevitable.** _

"So what, this guy just _asked_ you to run away with him? And you actually said yes?"

Clara gnawed on her bottom lip, suddenly feeling anxious. "Stars Nina, it's not like we're eloping together."

"But you've only just met him!" Nina hissed, though Clara could sense a hint of excitement in her best friend's voice. She knew she shouldn't be making a call to London right now, as it was ridiculously expensive and the reception here was spotty, but Clara genuinely needed a second opinion. Had she truly gone insane? She had just agreed to let a complete stranger drive her across the country in the span of two days. _Two days._

"I know, _I know_ ," Clara bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, for she was shaking at the mere thrill of this new plan, this wholly unexpected, completely non-sensible plan. "I've gone absolutely mad."

"He could be an axe murderer for all you know!"

"I seriously doubt that," she countered, pulling her coat more tightly over her shoulders. It was uncharacteristically chilly for a day in August, her breath escaping from her in tendrils every time she spoke. "And even if he was—which I'm absolutely _positive_ he isn't—he got through TSA, so he's unarmed." If she were truthful, Clara couldn't even picture John wielding a butter knife, that's how positive she was.

Nina let out a long sigh, her breath catching the line like wind might the sail of a boat. "I just can't believe you actually agreed to it. You won't even make eye contact with the Salvation Army bell ringer during Christmas."

"Oi, you can't judge me, what about _you?_ " Clara said in defense. When it came to strangers, her best friend and flatmate was prone to keeping and tending to them like they were house plants, or stray cats. She couldn't even begin to count the amount of times she had run into a half-dressed bloke shuffling through their fridge at eight in the morning, looking for eggs or milk or some kind of vegan substitute. Out of everything that Nina Porter had done in her life, Clara's current situation would lie on the surface of a never ending abyss.

"Yeah, but it's _weird_ this time," Nina replied, her tone sounding genuinely confused. " _You're_ the responsible one, not me!"

"Who says I'm being irresponsible?" the young traveler countered hastily, trying to justify her decision by means of stating the alternative. "I'd be late if I'd chosen any other option, and this is an important step towards a potentially blossoming career opportunity. If anything, I'm being responsibly adventurous!"

Nina scoffed through the phone, the sound physically disabling to Clara's increasing confidence in traveling with a stranger. Yes, she was adventurous, but on the safest and most primitive level. Flying by herself? No problem whatsoever. Ordering food in another language? A challenge, but certainly one she could overcome. Placing her trust in the hands of a man who's never before driven on American roads?

That was a new one. A risk, to put it lightly.

"So where's the ultimate Uber gone off to now, huh?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "He's fetching the rental car."

Craning her neck to catch a better glimpse of the arrival lot, she studied the vehicles waiting alongside the curb and wondered if any of them were John's. Everyone there seemed eager to leave, whether it be a band of flight attendants tiredly on the lookout for their hotel shuttle, or a small family of four anxiously awaiting their taxicab in the dark.

Similarly, Clara began to feel her patience wear thin as the clock struck twelve-thirty, Monday morning. Only a handful of hours before she was expected to walk through the doors of Wayfarer Industries, prepped and ready to go for her interview. Had John found difficulty in renting a car last-minute? Would they even get the chance to leave California at all, or had their window of opportunity closed before they'd even attempted to use it? Worrisome questions began to infiltrate her already worrisome mind, and it wasn't long before she began to doubt the entire success of the trip altogether.

"Are you scared he might have left you?" Nina asked. Clara glared into the darkness beyond the scope of the airport's eerie glow, as if her friend were lurking there, reading her every facial expression. She had a way of stating the exact fears that Clara herself could never admit to aloud.

"No," she snapped, scratching the back of her head. Of course he wouldn't have. They were in this together. "All his stuff is with me Nina, why on Earth would he have—"

Suddenly, as if her distress call had been answered by some spiritual force, a pair of white headlights turned the corner into the airport drive-way, all eyes slowly gravitating towards the thunderous sound of an engine that told Clara she was being given more than she had bargained for.

Her stare inching towards the vehicle that glided across the asphalt with an occult sort of ease, Clara found herself shaking her head in absolute disbelief. "Now that's just showing off."

Because John had rented a blue sports car, the kind you parked next to in grocery stores so thieves wouldn't think twice of keying your vehicle. The kind that Clara had only seen in films. But if anyone were to fulfill the starring role, it certainly wasn't her. In fact, as she met the gleaming hazel eyes of the man in the driver's seat, she realized that John had an intrepid plan of his own, and she was just along for the ride.

"It's a _TARDIS!_ " he exclaimed from behind the wheel as he pulled up next to her, elbow propped up against the open window in a futile attempt to look nonchalant, but Clara could tell that he was a complete fanatic over his find. "A state of the art, real-life, actual TARDIS! Last one in the lot, too."

"I'm gonna have to phone you back, Nina," Clara breathed into her cell, ending the call and looking towards the vehicle that would transport her across America within the next two days. It was a two-passenger automobile, sleek and angular in places that made it look as if it could carve through time itself, and it was entirely theirs for the time being. If anything, she had expected something more conventional—a Toyota Corolla, maybe—but not this. Definitely not this.

"So, what do you think?" John asked, popping out of the driver's seat and gesturing towards their ride in complete elation.

"I like it!" Clara said, trying to press the pedal on her enthusiasm over a topic she clearly wasn't passionate about. "It's...an appliance; it does a job."

John's face fell, and her expression twisted into one of slight discomfort as he said, "Yes, pretty cool 'appliance!' We're not talking cheese-grater here!" He smacked the hood of the car for emphasis, making Clara jump slightly. Something told her that whatever car he possessed back in London, it was more than just a vehicle. Perhaps it was even more intimate than a girlfriend.

"Well at least I know how to _use_ a cheese-grater," she frowned, stepping off of the curb to closely inspect the rich shade of blue that was so spotless it held a mirrored image of her troubled expression. "Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?"

"Yeah! Just did, didn't you see me?"

"Yes John, everyone did. You went under the speed limit just so everybody _could_."

"Well it's not everyday you get to drive a luxury car," the man said, stroking the hood of the car rather endearingly. "And besides," he added, gaze affixed onto his shoes. "It's your first time in America. It's only proper you get the best seat to see it."

Clara pulled away from her reflection to meet his eye. Had he really put that much thought into their impromptu road trip? Backing away from the vehicle, she studied the TARDIS under a new light, seeing it as a promise of an adventure rather than an intimidating character of wealth. It _was_ a nice car. And John had provided it of his own accord.

_"The only thing you owe me, Clara Oswald, is your company."_

Strange how she found such hospitality in someone she'd only just met, for reasons she didn't quite want to consider.

"Well then," she took a deep breath, pocketing her cell phone and giving him her best smile. "Let's make it a good one now, shall we?"

The way he beamed at her almost made her forget about the Wayfarer Interview. _Almost._ "That's the spirit!"

Together, the two travelers shoved their belongings into the back of the car, John slamming the trunk door shut before their suitcases could topple over. He brushed his hands on his trousers and beamed at his companion for a job well-done.

Clara grimaced. "That's gonna be hell to open up again."

"So what's a Londoner doing here in Frisco?" he asked, climbing into the driver's seat as Clara got in beside him, opening her carry-on bag and trying to locate the instructions she had printed. She contemplated how much she would tell him, for it was typical of someone to jump to conclusions when she told them that traveling was her proper job. Most didn't even see it as one, which was an opinion she didn't want to face, not tonight.

"I could ask you the same thing," she suggested, pulling out the instructions and stacking them neatly onto her lap. Three-thousand miles' worth of directions, all compacted into five pages of printer paper. "I'm here for work. You?"

"Same. Well, not really," he furrowed his brow, pulling out of the airport lot and onto the main road. "I'm _working,_ just without the money bit. I'm here for a residency interview."

"Residency? As in med school?"

"Yep," John heaved a sigh, clearly not wanting to dwell on it. "Just graduated earlier this summer, been looking for places to work while trying to retrieve my sanity, though I don't think I'm succeeding at either one."

"I'm sure some place will accept you," Clara reassured him, though she knew nothing of his work ethic. But something told her that he would be an excellent doctor, just by the way he sought to comfort her in the most taxing of situations. "Why so far from home, though? Have you been interviewed in London already?"

"I have," he replied, watching as cars passed him on either side. "I've been hesitant on making a decision, though. Think about it! It's like ordering ice cream; there are countless flavors to choose from and you can only pick one. How do you decide?"

"Easy. I'd stay home," Clara replied, imagining herself in her flat back in London, with Nina, the Whole Foods just around the block, the familiar scent of her cherry blossom bed sheets. Because while she fell in love with all of the places she had visited, London would always be the anchor the reeled her back home. She couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

"Really? Even if you had the opportunity to go anywhere, see anything?"

"Oh, I've had that opportunity alright, it's why I'm here," she promised him, fiddling with her ring. Her mother had given it to her years ago; it was a constant reminder of what she was leaving behind every time she stepped onto a plane. "But...I have people who matter to me back in London. My family, my friends, those I care for and help out from time to time. I could never abandon them."

John tore his gaze from the road for a split-second to see the fervor that set itself deep within his companion's eyes, a fierce sense of loyalty that made his lips perk into a small smile. It was a saddened smile, the kind that made you question what you had said to trigger such an expression. But Clara felt as if she wasn't in the position to ask, and instead chose to admire the city beyond her window, the city they'd be leaving behind in a matter of miles.

San Francisco was a place that had seeped from a dream into reality. It was an appropriate balance of old and new, the steep, cobblestone streets and charming trolley rides blended into an intricate system of modern skyscrapers and lively piers by the bay. The tourist attractions, from the red arms of the Golden Gate bridge extended across infinitely blue waters, to the eerie, fascinating labyrinth of Alcatraz island, commanded her full attention, and left her properly depleted by the end of it. She hadn't even finished the handful of articles she planned to work on that week, for many of them only existed as ideas in her head, though most of them were jotted down in the notebook she carried. Perhaps these next two days would give her the sufficient time she needed to hash her thoughts out.

Then, as if her surroundings had managed to retrieve her from daydreaming, she suddenly realized that John had grown rather uncomfortable in his own seat. His expression was a mix of deep concentration and unrest, sending Clara to consider the worst. Had they run out of gas? Had she revealed too much of herself than he'd been willing to hear? Or had he decided that driving on the other side of the road for two days straight was a task too daunting, too impossible?

"John?" Clara asked, eyeing him worriedly. "Are you okay, is something wrong?"

He gave her a strange look, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel before saying, "I think I drank too much coffee before leaving the airport."

The young woman blinked, not understanding.

"Oh. _Oh,_ " she said after a moment, feeling a surge of relief. "Okay, well, there should be a gas station around here somewhere..." she presumed, flipping through her five pages of instructions. It had now dawned on her that she hadn't factored basic needs into this trip at all. Eating, sleeping, and using the facilities became secondary when Clara was under a great deal of stress, and the Wayfarer interview being three-thousand miles away was no exception.

"Uh...I don't have cell service out here, so I can't look up any directions," she admitted, looking out the window for a roadside directory. John jutted his chin out towards his phone sitting in the cup-holder.

"It uses facial recognition," he told her when she asked for the password, Clara awkwardly holding the screen to his face as the phone unlocked several pages of apps, most of which were completely unnecessary.

"What do you need a harmonica app for?"

"For _serenading,_ " he replied incredulously, practically squirming. "I'll have you know I play a mean solo in Billy Joel's _Piano Man._ "

"Right," Clara said, not sure what to do with that information.

She located Maps and found the nearest gas station to be but a quarter of a mile away, both passengers on the lookout for their exit as Clara felt the weight of his phone in her hand. It was a complicated little thing, with its facial recognition and seemingly infinite amount of storage, and she suddenly wondered what other intricate pieces of technology John liked to surround himself with. Something told her that he took pride in the complexity of his belongings.

The blinking neon sign of a 7-Eleven beckoned the travelers off of the highway and into a surprisingly busy lot, John managing to park the TARDIS in between two massive pickup trucks before scrambling inside, his navigator right at his heels.

"Men's room is out of order, man," a grungy looking teenager said from his magazine at the counter. "Use the women's."

Clara saw him dart across the convenience store with about as much grace as an infantile giraffe, his shoulder grazing the crisps aisle as bags of barbecue and lemon-lime fell limply from their places on the shelves. Frowning, she went to go pick up after him, the slamming of a door somewhere around the corner reassuring her that he had made it on time. John was quickly turning into one of the most peculiar people she'd ever met, with his child-like flailing and attraction towards anything shiny or new. He'd certainly made an impression on her.

Grabbing a pair of iced coffees from the fridge, the young woman found herself slowly gravitating towards the thick collection of paperbacks by the toiletries section. She'd admittedly never purchased a book that wasn't from a bookstore or an online shop, for those found anywhere else tended to be saturated in romance and politics, topics she'd never been brave enough to sift through. But as she scanned the list of titles on the shelf, she found herself plucking one from the bunch out of sheer curiosity.

 _Withering Rose,_ the cover read in silver embossed lettering, below it a blood-red flower on the verge of wilting away. The image was so vivid Clara could feel its soft petals beneath her fingertips. What intrigued her the most was not the author's name but a lack thereof; the book was published anonymously, not a trace of belonging on its finely-printed face. It almost reminded her of herself, of Oswin. Her own form of anonymous.

"What's it about?" John asked from directly above her shoulder, Clara yelping as she threatened to smack him with the small but surprisingly heavy volume. The young traveler sighed upon realizing that it was only him, and couldn't help but notice all of the snacks he had gathered into his arms since the last time she had seen him. Either they were collecting hitchhikers on their way to New York or he seriously believed he could eat four packages of graham crackers in two days.

"I...uh..." Clara stammered, trying to reorganize her thoughts. Lowering the book from its defensive position, she flipped it to its back cover, where the synopsis had been printed. "It's about two time travelers who gallivant through time and space, until they're suddenly separated by walls of opposing but parallel universes. They're faced with the unnerving challenge of finding their way back to one another."

John crinkled his nose. "Sounds silly to me."

"What's wrong with silly? Still talking to you aren't I," Clara retorted dryly, relieving him of two boxes of graham crackers and a Toblerone. "I think it's sweet. It'll give me something to romanticize about for the next two days."

"Yes, but I would think it nice for you to live in the moment," John debated playfully as they both made their way to the cashier. "We're gallivanting across _America_ here, Clara Oswald! It's like Manifest Destiny, except backwards."

"You're not actually comparing America to a fictional realm of inter-space time travel, are you?"

"Yes. No," John shook his head as they dumped their food supply onto the counter, where the raggedy teenager had begun to scan each item at a snail's pace. "Though I'm still not entirely convinced; who _are_ these time travelers? Are they good, bad? Human, ginger?"

"Well maybe I just might tell you," Clara smirked, slapping the book onto the counter and fishing a twenty dollar bill from the waistband of her yoga pants. "If you let me return the favor this time 'round."

They departed from the 7-Eleven with an armful of plastic bags in tow, Clara retrieving from their stash her precious new novel, which she had begun to read before they'd even made their way back to the car. "It's about a nine-hundred year-old alien from space in the form of a dashing young bloke in a pinstripe suit, and a blonde shopkeeper from the Powell Estate," she confirmed as John piled their purchases into the TARDIS, the man nearly banging his head on the roof as he turned to face her, wide-eyed.

" _Nine-hundred?_ " he gawked. "Blimey, no wonder he has no fashion sense," he spat in distaste, taking from her the last of the groceries and tossing them into the mix.

"Says the man who wears a bow-tie and suspenders to an eleven o'clock flight."

"Oi, bow-ties are cool, okay?" he said defensively, haphazardly adjusting it to prove his point. "You don't have to be wearing a pinstripe suit to be a dashing young bloke."

A coy smile broke out on Clara's face before she began to laugh, a true, genuine sound that made John the tiniest bit proud of himself, if not a little confused as she asked, "Is this what you do?"

He was thrown as a set of dimples deepened on either side of her lips. "Eh?"

"Is this actually what you do?" she laughed triumphantly, circling the car as if she had just now discovered its true purpose. Perhaps it was the mere prospect of being invited on this road trip, or the book that had somehow managed to give her ideas, but she found this entire scenario to be rather ridiculous. "Do you just, crook your finger and people just jump in your snogging vehicle and fly away?"

John was appalled. "It is not a snogging vehicle!"

"I'll be the judge of that," she said with a smug smile, brown eyes twinkling as they met his across the hood of the TARDIS. John propped himself up against it as he tried to meet her eye-level.

"Staring when?"

Traces of bewilderment and awe passed over her face, Clara descending into momentary silence as she pondered over how, exactly, this man had managed to capture her from page one of what was sure to be the most unexpected few days of her entire life. And yet, despite all the organization and planning, she was willing go along with the unexpected for once. See where this road would take her.

"Starting now," she told him, opening the door to the passenger's seat and climbing in.


	3. The Patron Saint of Soufflés

Clara was arrested by John's taste in music, a strange assortment of catchy baselines and guitar riffs that she found herself humming to miles after they had ended.

His phone was connected to the car's Bluetooth speaker system, playlists of alternative rock, mixes of seventies'-eighties' tunes, and the occasional Beatles anthem keeping them awake as they began their drive out East. He offered to let her choose at one point, but she declined, insisting that Muse was far superior to anything she could ever suggest.

In truth, her preference—which primarily consisted of indie pop and show-tunes—would probably never appeal to the man, or so Clara had assumed as she jotted down an outline for the culinary article she was working on. _101 Places to See_ had no real schedule to it, though inconsistency was her biggest pet peeve, and the lack of connection didn't quite hit her until she tried to refresh her business e-mail for the third time in a row without success.

 _It's only two days,_ she scolded herself, pulling her legs up onto the seat as she tried to finish her notes. It never quite dawned on her just how much of her time was spent online—even when she was back home, she had cellular data to rely on—but now, the plug had truly been pulled. There was nothing else to fill the void except the company of the man beside her and the ability of her pen to produce some decent work.

_Don't be such a wuss, Clara._

"So what exactly is it you do?" John asked curiously after he had finished a rather bodacious rendition of _Baby, I Love Your Way_ by Big Mountain, traces of the reggae melody fading into gradual silence. Clara let out a hum of amusement as she wrapped her sweater around herself, taking a sip of her iced coffee and prying another graham cracker from the box that sat between them.

"I write," she said simply, breaking the piece in two and popping the smaller half into her mouth. John smirked at her, as if suddenly faced with an equation he now had the pleasure of solving.

"Yes, but what? Are you a journalist? Novelist? What about you is so special that Wayfarer Industries wants you on their side?"

"Trust me, it's nothing as scholarly as a journalist," Clara promised him. She took pride in what she did, cherished every moment she spent in cities far from where she came from, but when it whittled down to an actual job description, she found herself drawing a blank. "I travel places, I write about what I experience, and I...post it online."

"So you're a blogger, then?"

"You could say that," she replied, though the title hardly encompassed the magnitude of what she did. "Though it's not as straightforward, I think. I tell people that I write because it's what you would normally think a blogger to do. But it's so much more than that, you see; it's promotion, advertisement, it's taking the world and trying to fit it into two-thousand words or less, whilst trying to pass of as incredibly cool."

John laughed, reaching for his own iced coffee before saying, "Well, I think you're incredibly cool already, so I'd say you're doing a fine job." He took a swig from the glass bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before asking, "And traveling—do you have anyone who goes with you? A friend or a colleague?"

Clara shook her head, doodling a flower in the corner of her notebook. "No, not really. I do most of my traveling alone, though I do go on holidays with my dad every now and then." She smiled, looking down at the silver ring on her finger. "He always told me of the adventures he went on with my mum. I suppose it's what inspired me to start."

"It's a great big world out there," John said with a flicker of acclaim in his eyes, training them on the dark road ahead. "And you're trying to conquer it all, how 'bout that."

"I wouldn't say conquer, more so...admire from a distance," Clara mused, leaning her head on the window as she watched the cars pass them by. "It all goes by rather quickly, like a slideshow. Cities flash and go, and then you hop on a plane and it's off to the next place."

"Sounds awfully busy," he observed. "How do you find time to visit with friends?"

"I don't as much anymore," she admitted, furrowing her brow. Nina had been one of the only constants following her university years, and even then the two friends found it difficult to keep in touch, with Clara being everywhere at once. "Actually, I should be asking _you_ that, Doctor Smith, with your four years of graduate school and whatnot."

"Bah," John dismissed the thought with a shake of his head, flicking the quiff of brown hair out of his eyes. "I may be a half-decent doctor, Miss Oswald, but I can assure you, I was _not_ the best student."

Clara laughed. "What? So you partied?"

He tore his gaze off the road to smile at her. "Didn't you?"

"No!" she shook her head, baffled by the mere idea of it. "My weekends consisted of revision, eating bagels, and watching _Friends_ on a loop until Netflix asked if I was still watching." She was neither shy nor anti-social in school, conversations came as naturally as they went, but she just never gravitated towards a large group of people. Instead, she chose to live vicariously through the experiences of others, and that was perfectly fine with her.

"I don't believe that for a second," John insisted, lowering the music. "You're a travel blogger! You're supposed to get into these crazy conundrums, jump into ravines with nothing but your socks on."

"I would never do that," Clara said flatly, wrinkling her nose at how specific his example was. Seconds passed before her eyes widened considerably. "Oh my god. You've done that, haven't you?"

"Guilty as charged," John admitted, though his expression held no remorse. "I was in Jamaica, actually. They've got phenomenal breadfruit over there! Tastes nothing like bread."

"You're insane." She shook her head, the corners of her lips curving into a smile. "Absolutely insane."

"And _you're_ not insane enough!"

Clara detected a sort of passion in his voice, as if he _wanted_ her to risk her life for the sake of having a good story to tell. And it made her realize just how audacious this man really was, the doctor who partied throughout graduate school, went skinny-dipping in ravines, and just _decided_ to drive across the country in a span of two days for a friend's birthday party. He was completely mad.

She didn't need to be reckless in order to have a good time. After all, she was the most maternal out of her group of friends, _'the responsible_ _one,'_ as Nina dubbed it.

"Okay then," she told him, capping her pen and setting it dutifully in her lap. "List off some things, and I'll tell you whether I've done them or not."

"...alright," he nodded, eyes gleaming with the challenge. "Scuba-diving. Have you ever done that before?"

"Yes, actually. I was on a Caribbean cruise with my flatmate, practically forced me to get in or else she'd dump my bag into the pool."

"She sounds lovely," John said with a wry smile, tapping thoughtfully on the steering wheel. "Sung at a karaoke bar?"

"Dear _god_ no," she insisted, cringing just at the mere idea of it. The most she'd ever done was play a mouse in a school production of Cinderella, and even then she had scurried off-stage and was properly sick for the entirety of it. She dreaded that day and everything about it, and turned the color of a beet whenever it was revisited at family gatherings.

"Not your thing then, okay," he chuckled as he ran a hand through his long hair, which seemed to naturally gravitate into a wave situated just above his eyes. "Ever _been_ to a karaoke bar?"

"Yes, and it was _horrendous_ ," Clara admitted, recalling the night through strange scents and overall feelings of discomfort. "This bloke spilled red wine down my top. Never been back since."

The man beside her grimaced, taking a conscious sip of his coffee. "Did he at least apologize?"

"No," Clara snorted. "I doubt he even remembers." She had never fully recovered from that night, from the way the man's eyes had widened as she flicked drops of Cabernet from the flounce sleeves of her white blouse, a favorite of hers that was now an eternal shade of wine-stained pink. "Called me Clarissa," she added mournfully.

With the intention of averting any more painful memories, John proposed they play another game, like 'I Spy,' or a heated round of '20 Questions.' Clara, unsure of how to take the suggestion, insisted that he come up with another example. There _had_ to be something in that mind of his, something that proved to him that she had a sense of adventure that was just as substantial as whatever the hell _he_ did in his free time. John contemplated his choice for a little over a minute, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the steering wheel as Bono sang to them fervidly through the speaker system.

"Ever gotten a parking ticket before?" he asked, Clara promptly smacking him in the shoulder with her notebook. John jerked back from the strike, his hands veering the car to the left as he sputtered, "Oi! What was that for?"

"You think I'm just some goody saint, don't you?"

"No!" John protested, though his denial was utterly transparent. The young woman beside him sighed, folding her arms across her chest. His next few words came out in a jumbled rush. "I don't, I promise! It's just that...you're young! Shouldn't you be doing, you know...young things with...with young people-?"

"What, like you for instance?" _Down boy,_ she wanted to tell him, but refrained, as the need to justify herself was much stronger. "I'll have you know that I do plenty of fun, exciting things within the perimeters of my own comfort zone."

The man in the driver's seat sat quietly for a moment, his gaze leveled, as if he'd never heard of such a thing. In fact, the young medical student found the writer to be so intriguing that it baffled him to think that she considered herself so reserved, and so utterly content with it. Life to him was a pool with no bottom to it, and she found peace sitting at its very edge, the water lapping at her ankles. _Admiring from a distance,_ as she had phrased it.

"Alright then, what kind of fun, exciting things?" he found himself challenging her, Clara's mouth twisting in thought. There were a myriad of things she could have said: wandering about in museums for hours on end, visiting bookstores and conversing with the clerk about her most recent purchase, traveling until her brain was filled to the brim with memories. Instead, what came out of her mouth was something she hadn't done in years, and frankly, wasn't quite good at to begin with.

"...baking soufflés?"

"Soufflés," he repeated, lips curving into an admirable smile. "Clara Oswald, the patron saint of soufflés."

She forgot to mention the part in which she was utterly rubbish at it. "It's not such a bad idea, actually. We should make it canon."

"I'll write to the pope immediately," John promised her.

Their lack of sleep had them giggling like children at the idea, the young traveler insisting that she'd cheat the system by being the first saint to be canonized without having died first. "I'll go into hiding, become a nun or something and dedicate the rest of my life towards penance for my fraudulent vocation to the sainthood."

"But what of the bakers?" the doctor narrated theatrically, advocating for the deflated, burnt delicacies. "Their prayers will remained unanswered!"

Her face was beginning to grow sore from grinning too much. "Well, they won't know that, will they?"

Perhaps it was the zenith of their caffeinated frenzy, but Clara had never felt this way when talking to someone before. It was like watching a book adaptation play out on screen; she knew what she was in for, knew it was something good, and found herself smiling at every imaginative notion that fell from John's mouth. At this hour in the morning, all worries of traveling with him, all anxieties of making her interview on time, disintegrated into a state of mind she never wanted to relinquish.

They reached Sacramento but an hour later, darkened outlines of concentrated city skyscrapers dotting the horizon until the horizon itself was beneath their feet. The TARDIS rumbled over building blocks of highway as they passed through California's capital without so much as a word, for the silence was enough to contain their awe. John had purposefully taken heed of the road signs, allowing them to direct him and his companion towards the Tower Bridge.

The Tower Bridge linked West Sacramento to its adjacent county in the East, its steel skeleton running across several hundred feet of river, the two travelers staring out into black waters as John drove though it, watching as beams of light and steel flitted past their windows. Nighttime had turned the structure into a throbbing vein of early morning drivers, its yellow glow illuminating the shadows like a candle did a dark room. There was something strangely intimate about the cars that passed them at this hour, and he suddenly wondered where they were coming from, where they were headed. Were they doctors relieving themselves from a late-night shift at the hospital, or designated drivers pooling their friends back home? Or were they like them—weary strangers just trying to make it to a certain place at a certain time? The thought stuck with him as they rode across the bridge, his eyes slowly drifting towards Clara, gauging her reaction.

If anything, it relieved him to see that she was finally beginning to look relaxed. For the past several miles, her shoulders had been tense, her gaze constantly flicking towards the time, as if daring it to advance by the minute, a hint of dread deepening in her eyes whenever it did. He wanted to get to New York just as much as she did, and she had every right to fret about the situation she was thrown into—but not at the expense of her mind. The doctor was well accustomed to that level of stress; in a way, it was similar to holding one's breath, anticipating the worst. And he didn't want her to feel that. It didn't sit well with him at all.

Which is precisely why, when they had reached the end of the bridge, John grabbed his phone from the cup holder and announced, "We need a theme song."

Her eyebrows raised. The gesture was typically followed by a question; he had learned that in the past hour. "A what?"

"You heard me, a theme song. For the road trip! Something that you'll listen to for years to come and think, ' _Oh, yeah! I did that; I traveled the country with some daft bloke in a bow-tie and survived!'_ Granted, we haven't gotten there yet—" He could feel a glare press itself into the side of his cheek. "— _kidding!_ I'm a skilled driver, I promise!" To prove himself, he let go of the wheel and managed to keep the car in its lane for a solid five seconds. "See? No hands!"

"Do that again and I promise to chuck this out the window," Clara warned him, snatching the box of graham crackers that lay half-eaten on the console between them, though he could tell that she was enjoying this. Smirking to himself, he thumbed through his lists of songs, trying to find one suitable enough to encompass the two days of the trip that hadn't happened yet. How could he choose? It was almost as if he were predicting the future.

"Why don't you let fate decide?" she suggested after a while. "Put your music on shuffle. The first song that plays, that's our theme song, and we can't do anything about it."

He snapped his fingers and pointed in her direction, relinquishing the steering wheel completely for the second time that night. Clara gave him a look. "I like your way of thinking, Saint Oswald."

Her nose wrinkled. "Please don't call me that."

"It's either that or Soufflé Girl," he said, plopping his phone back into the cup holder as it decided upon which song to play.

"Fine, but only under the agreement that I call you Chin Boy for the remainder of the trip," she said behind a mouthful of graham cracker.

John's jaw dropped at her comment, the spark in her eyes indicating that she had been meaning to bring it up for a while now, but the look quickly fell from her face as their song began to blare through the speaker system. John's frown slowly turned into a grin so wide it could almost compensate for the complete shock on Clara's face as she took his phone into her small hands. There was no need to check; she knew what it was from the moment it began, but a part of her couldn't quite believe it as she pressed the home button and—

" _Seriously?_ " she yelled over the loud electric keyboard as it echoed throughout the TARDIS in vehement waves. " _I Ran?_ "

John bopped his head to the guitar track, hands drumming on the console, for he clearly found it to be the best thing ever. Staring intently into Clara's eyes, he sang, _"I walk along the avenue, I never thought I'd meet a girl like yooouuu, meet a girl like yooouuu!"_

Mashing her lips together, she asked, "Can I retract my previous statement—?"

" _With auburn hair and tawny eyes_ —it's _A Flock of Seagulls!_ " he cried jovially.

"Precisely my point!"

 _"The kind of eyes that hypnotize me throuuugghh_ —come on Clara. You know the words, you know you do," he was grinning at _her_ now as the song careened into its unmistakable chorus. She shook her head. There was no _way_ she was singing in front of this man. Not only was she embarrassed— _"And I raan, I ran so far awaayy,"_ —but she couldn't sing to save her life— _"I just raan, I ran all night and daayy..."_

Which is why he was surprised when Clara muttered, very quietly under her breath, "... _I couldn't get away_."

He cheered in triumph, a laugh rumbling though him that was so buoyant that it began to make Clara laugh, too. There was something about his voice that made her move in rhythm to the tune he carried— _dancing, it's called dancing,_ she told herself—the way it filled every syllable with purpose, the kind of singing that didn't need to be on key to be good. He was doing everything that would make any other person seem daft: the expressions, the air-guitar, but he made it seem effortless, as if he were trying to impress her by looking absolutely ridiculous. And it was working, although Clara herself couldn't recognize it.

Because after all, life was a pool with no bottom to it, and John Smith was fully intent on pulling her in.

* * *

Two hours later, his eyelids began to seep heavily to a close, the road before him blurring in and out as he tried to latch onto every smidgen of caffeine left in his system. It had never really hit him before, the isolation of being on the road this early in the morning. The city-like rush of the highway had long since dried into a double-lane road that lay flat on the baked earth as far as the eye could see, which wasn't very far, to his dismay. Their only guidance was the headlights of the TARDIS, a white cone that made every dotted line wink at them as they passed. John shook his head to wake himself up.

Clara looked up from the passenger seat, her book laying in her lap as she read. Tired, but not exactly sleepy, she was beyond headaches at this point as she turned off the flashlight on his phone and asked, "You okay over there?"

"Yeah," he reassured her, though the word was half-yawned. "Actually, maybe not. I'm fading. Every time I blink, it's a dream."

"Three hours of driving can do that to a person," she admitted, frowning at the empty bottles of iced coffee that clattered in their cup holders. "Well, we've made it this far. Want to take the next exit and find a coffee shop, nap in the parking lot for a bit?"

He blinked, his eyes watering. "But what about your interview? We haven't got much time—"

"A nap won't hurt," she promised him, closing the book and sitting up in her seat. "And you can't drool all over the seat-belt either; this is a rental car."

A lazy smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It was a sight she hadn't expected to become so familiar with so soon.

Using the turn signal despite being the only car on the road, John did as she suggested and pulled off the highway at the nearest exit, satisfied that they had at least managed to get out of California. They had crossed the border a few miles back, a sign greeting them with, _'Welcome to Nevada: The Silver State.'_ He'd been here once before; it was summer holiday and he and a few friends had spontaneously booked a flight to Sin City, their money and sobriety depleting over the course of two nights. He didn't remember much of that trip, come to think of it. What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas, after all.

But as they diverted farther from the highway, what he had expected to be a run-off-the-mill town actually turned out to be a small city, the neon lights of Nevada buildings beckoning them forward, the road becoming more even, like it had been paved over in the last year. It was a hidden little city, tucked between the mountains, an island of industrialization in a sea of arid land.

"Did we pass a sign on the way in?" he asked Clara as they passed between the city's vibrant colors of pink and green and blue, hotels and casinos lining the street like businessmen intent on making them a promising offer. She furrowed her brow and looked around them for any indication of where they were, but found only bright marquees and lines for jaunty night clubs, with the occasional parking garage. Where _were_ they?

"I don't think so," she replied, feeling the city's pulse beneath her skin in the way its lights danced across the hood of the car, the worn structures of the buildings upheld by the lively spirit of its people. This city was tiny, but it was very much alive. And Clara certainly wanted to find out it's name. "Are you sure we're not lost?"

"Positive," he replied, much too quickly for her liking. "I'm just going to park so we can find out where we are..."

Nodding her head, Clara fiddled with the ring on her finger. "Okay, I'll just look up some directions on your phone. I'm still set on finding a decent coffee shop." _A Starbucks, at the least,_ she bargained with herself as John found a space in a particularly darkened area of the street, where a boarded-up building sat dilapidated beyond a diamond-wired fence, the revelry of the city laying but a few hundred feet away. Thankful that they had at least found someplace quiet, Clara pressed the home button on John's phone, but it didn't turn on. She held down the power button. Nothing. It was dead.

The TARDIS put in park mode, John sat back and took a long, deep breath, eyes flitting towards the young woman beside him, the dark screen in her hands. "Ah. Brilliant," he chuckled, hands massaging his face. Dropping them into his lap for the first time since San Francisco, he asked, "Have you got a portable charger?"

"It's in my suitcase," she told him tiredly, rotating the phone between her hands as if she could somehow bring it back to life without having to stand. The car was dark, and their parking space was far from the warm glow of the streetlamps. She could only discern the outline of his face, the prominent cheekbones, the jutted chin she had made fun of just hours ago. If anything, it was the perfect place for him to gain a few hours of shut eye, without the harsh lights of the strange, nameless city they had stumbled upon. But coffee was still a priority, no questions asked.

"I'll go get it," Clara followed up after a minute, hand hovering over the door handle for a moment before she pulled it and stepped out of the car, her muscles aching at the sudden movement. Extending her arms towards the inky black sky, she stretched, popping her back before making her way to the trunk of the car. Stepping onto the sidewalk, she then realized just how cold it was, rows of goosebumps appearing on her skin as she nestled into her threadbare sweater.

 _Skies, it's dark out here,_ she thought to herself as she tried to locate the button to the trunk, fingers searching blindly for it as they traced patterns across the vehicle's cold exterior. She could hardly even see her own hand, and when she blinked, she saw little difference between her surroundings and the back of her eyelids. The noise of the nameless city was now distant in comparison to the pressing silence, for Clara could detect every nuance of sound, her ears picking up on every detail in the absence of light.

So when she heard a pair of boots on the sidewalk, she immediately looked over her shoulder, eyes searching the shadows for a visual to accompany the noise, but they found none. Squinting, she drew her hand from the TARDIS and slowly turned around to face the darkness of the street, towards that sound of the stranger drawing themselves nearer by the second. Funny how she no longer considered the man inside the vehicle to be one, for it was all relative now.

 _Probably just some drunkard,_ she told herself, unsure of what to feel as her eyes made out a figure in the nearby distance, except it wasn't as charismatic as a big chin or a pair of cheekbones. No, this one was different. _T_ _aller._ Frightening even. A chill ran down her spine, and Clara shivered, though it had little to do with the cold air as the figure she spotted at the mouth of the nearest alleyway suddenly divided into two.

There were _two_ of them.

And one, she soon found out as they approached her, was holding a gun in his left pocket.


	4. The Biggest Little City in the World

"J-John?" Clara breathed, eyes never leaving the two men as they approached her.

What scared her the most wasn't the fact that they were drawing themselves closer, but that when they were near enough to be seen, they looked like ordinary people. People she could've easily passed on the street and thought nothing of. Now, as her vision adjusted to the darkness, she took into account every detail she could absorb, for if there was any chance of them escaping, they were heading straight for the police. Even in fear, the young writer was always thinking ahead, making plans.

"What do you want?" she demanded, her voice as sharp as a whip. It was in no way a reflection of the panic that made her heart beat wildly out of its rib-cage.

The first man, the one who drew the weapon from his pocket, stopped just a few feet from her, as if he were trying to be polite. He was a lanky man, appearing lost in his unfitted flight jacket, the asymmetry of his oblong face making his small smile all the more noticeable. "Nice car, pretty girl, you tell me."

"You'll have to forgive my partner here, missus, he's quite the one to flirt," said the man beside him, flexing his hand into a fist and relaxing it repeatedly. He was about a foot shorter than his friend, but stockier in build, the muscles in his face settling upon a permanent scowl. "I do hope we're not sending you mixed messages."

"No, I think you've made your point perfectly clear," Clara muttered, backing up until she hit John, who had just gotten out of the TARDIS and was now wearing a rather perplexed expression on his face.

"Clara," John murmured, his breath grazing the top of her head as he spoke. "What's going on?"

They both knew the answer to that question, but Clara understood the denial in his tone. Perhaps there was a small chance that this was just one, huge mistake.

"I think," she whispered under her breath. "And I could be wrong—" She hoped to _God_ she was wrong. "—but I think we're being mugged."

The words were so absurd that she almost didn't believe them. To be fair, she wasn't dense; people were robbed all the time. People on the news, characters in movies, elders with purses on the street, but never her. Never in this strange city with these strange men and a doctor whom she hadn't known up until five hours ago. She was responsible. Careful even. And robberies didn't just _happen_ to careful people.

"Huh," John nodded, sounding strangely okay with all of this. "That is a new one."

"Well, now we can both just _brag_ about it, can't we—?"

"Now here's what I want you to do," the man with the scowl spat impatiently. "I want you two to line up against the fence, and empty your pockets completely, you here me? No one has to get hurt."

"Yes, but you see, my friend here doesn't have pockets," John told them without an ounce of fear in his voice, gesturing to Clara's yoga pants and conveniently pocket-less pink cardigan. "So I'm afraid we can't participate. Unfortunately," he added, feigning disappointment as Clara's eyes snapped immediately to his, as if to ask, _Are you_ trying _to get us killed?_

"Then I'm afraid it's just gonna have to be you," the first man replied smoothly, toying with the gun in his hands like one might a pair of children's scissors. He looked towards his accomplice, cocking his head in their direction. "Hold her arms."

"No, no, you will do _no_ such thing," John said, pulling Clara behind him in an instant as he tried to inch themselves gradually towards the TARDIS. "You will not lay a _hand_ on her, nor will you steal _anything_ from _either_ of us, you understand?" There was something darker pooling into his voice, a fierce sort of protectiveness that Clara didn't anticipate coming as he tried to size up the two men.

"Or what?" the second man said, meeting his eye level, clearly unfazed by the threat.

"Or else we'll be _severely_ inconvenienced!" John retorted, trying to steady himself as they drew nearer, their expressions growing more and more agitated with each step. Clara's lips were glued together in fear of saying the wrong thing, in fear of contributing to the fire that John had so unthinkingly began by opening his big, audacious mouth. "Besides, you can't rob us! Because...because—"

Unsure of where the courage came from, she blurted out, "You don't take card!"

"No, you don't!" John snapped his fingers. "And you don't want cards, you want hard cash, which is precisely what we don't have. We don't have anything, actually." He motioned to his pockets frenetically. "Actually, no, I lied, we have graham crackers. Do you like graham crackers? We have loads of those."

"Quit stalling," the man in the flight jacket growled, constantly ejecting and re-inserting the magazine like it was a nervous tick. "Search them."

"Do we look like people who have a lot of money?" John demanded, slapping his hands onto either side of his face. "Look at me! _Look_ at these eye bags, these are several years' worth of student loans right here! Trust me, we are the _last_ people you want to be robbing right now—"

His voice ascended into a yelp as the gun was aimed directly at them, Clara's hand finding John's as they both stilled, blood screeching in her ears. His fingers interlaced through hers and held on tightly, as if they were both holding onto dear life as they stared into death's hollow eye. Clara had always considered her passing to be one in an epilogue that followed several adventurous, tell-tale stories, not an abrupt twist that had nothing to do with anything she had ever planned. And what frightened her the most was that no one would know. Not her dad, or Nina, hell, she didn't even know where she _was_.

The scowling man's lips perked up into a self-satisfied grin as he asked, "And do you take out students loans so you can drive around in _that?"_

John turned towards the TARDIS, as if just now noticing it was there. Clara would have rolled her eyes if they weren't permanently glued to the barrel of the gun, which wavered tediously between the two like a pill choosing a slot on a roulette wheel. She knew the car was a bad idea from the beginning; she just didn't expect it to inflict _this_ grave of a consequence.

"Oh, no, no, no," John insisted, hand retreating to his forehead, as if this entire thing had been a huge misunderstanding. "It's a _rental car_ , I was feeling ambitious—"

_BANG!_

The sound of the gun shattered her eardrums as John guarded her from the oncoming bullet, his body enveloping hers as her back hit the TARDIS in one, deafening blow. She was shaking and couldn't bring herself to stop as she buried her face into the protection of his coat, waves of shock stilling every system in her body, failing to deliver even tears as she mouthed a silent prayer to a God she never really acknowledged until now. _Please end this._ _Please let this be over. Please let this all just be over..._

Except the bullet never came. And the sound of John's heartbeat called out to her through all the ringing, beating at a hundred miles per hour as his chest rose and fell with each passing, silent second. _Alive._

Because the man in the flight jacket didn't shoot his gun.

The one who had suddenly appeared at the perimeter of the darkness, however, did.

" _HEY!"_ the stranger in the distance shouted at them, his pistol aimed towards the sky. "What the hell is going on?"

The two men before them scrambled from their positions to escape into the crowded street, the man concealed in shadow firing two more warning shots into the night air. Clara's heart leaped from her chest as John remained firmly before her, his tall, lanky frame blocking her from any forward attack as the sound of running footsteps reverberated off of the brick walls of the dilapidated building. The man now raced towards them, drawing himself from the darkness and into the light, revealing a long navy blue coat, mousy brown hair, and a surprisingly strong build.

"That's right, you get outta here before I put a bullet up your ass!" the gunman hollered towards the convicts' retreating figures, a gloved hand spinning the weapon with unnerving ease as his expression broke out into a self-satisfied grin. Clara could tell by the way the lines on his face deepened that he frequented that smile. "God, I love it when I do that."

Perhaps his sense of judgement had been muddled, but John was not about to take any more chances as he pulled a small blade from his pocket and pointed it at the man, whose striking pair of blue eyes twinkled as he beheld the two travelers.

"Stay back!" John warned, keeping Clara behind him, his fingers still intertwined with hers. In a way, it felt instinctive to hold onto her; after all, she was the only thing he felt familiar with in this strange, nameless havoc of a city. "I'm not afraid to use this!"

"I wouldn't doubt it for a second," the gunman replied smoothly, tugging on each finger of his leather glove before pulling it off, doing the same to the other hand and pocketing both. Meanwhile, Clara had emerged from behind John, her heartbeat still hammering in her ears as she stood by his side, unafraid. Something in this new stranger's smile told her that she was safe now, though the young man next to her clearly had a long ways to go before hitting that realization.

Eyeing the contraption in John's hand, Clara's eyebrows furrowed as she asked, "Are you threatening him with a pocket knife?"

"Oi," John's take on a predatory stance slackened significantly as he turned to frown at her. "It's more than just a pocket knife; it's a _sonic._ Developed it in year eight; it's a screwdriver, lock pick, bottle opener, _and_ flashlight all in one! Excellent for power point presentations," the man beamed, aiming the emerald green laser pointer in the direction of their supposed assailant. Clara rolled her eyes.

"So what, you're going to _blind_ him?"

"Fellas!" the gunman interjected cheerily, raising his hands in surrender as he approached. "If I may plead my case, I mean you two no harm, and would like to keep my retinas in check. They're very dear to me, you see." He flashed them that same, quick-witted smile as he extended a hand out to John. "Jack Harkness, pleased to meet you."

Slightly overwhelmed by the man's oozing charisma, the young doctor lowered the sonic and accepted the shake without a word. Jack then laid his eyes on the woman beside him, taking her hand immediately and grazing his lips atop of her knuckles in a swift kiss. "And may I say that looking at you has made the mere _idea_ of losing my vision even more terrifying. Miss...?"

A small, bashful smile played on the young traveler's lips, her cheeks darkening into a shade of pink as she said, "Clara, Clara Oswald."

"And I'm John Smith. _Doctor_ John Smith, to be clear," the man next to her interjected, unsure of whether to feel nauseated or excluded from this man's attention.

Sensing the tone in the young doctor's voice, Jack pulled his hand politely from Clara's grasp and beamed at them both. "Well, Doctor and Clara, you couldn't have picked at better night to be mugged. I was just heading home from my night shift at the Torchwood Institute and overheard all the commotion. You two alright?"

She was immediately pleased by his charm and the way it sought to reassure her. "Think so, my heart rate has seen better days, though."

"Torchwood," John repeated, crossing his arms in intrigue. He recognized the name from somewhere in the distant part of his brain, but couldn't quite lay a finger on it as he asked, "Isn't that a secret branch of the military?"

"Well, if you know about it, then it isn't very secret then, is it?"

"You work for the military, then?" Clara's eyes widened, a smile appearing on her face as she silently thanked the heavens for their perfect choice of a savior for tonight's near-fiasco. "Well that explains the thing you did back there, with the..." She gestured vaguely at his pockets, where she could discern the faint outline of the gun pressed against the navy blue fabric of his coat. Jack grinned.

"If I'd known I'd make such a heroic first impression, I'd have introduced myself as _Captain_ Jack Harkness, group leader of the 133 Squadron of the Torchwood Institute." The words didn't even come off as arrogant with the amount of fluidity in which he said them, as if conversation were a game and he was constantly on the ball.

"What does that mean?" John asked, trying his best to sound unimpressed.

Jack was glowing. "I get to fire guns without permission and tell people what to do, though being called _Captain_ is the best part of the job."

The young man nodded alongside him, as if he understood exactly what he meant. "Yeah, people call me _Doctor_ sometimes, too."

"And you?" the captain turned to Clara, enjoying this. "What do people call you?"

She only shrugged half-heatedly. "Saint Oswald, apparently."

A hearty laugh escaped from the captain's mouth, as if he knew there was a story behind that and was only waiting to hear it as he said, "Say, I like you two. Have you got a place to stay, or were you just gonna sit the night out in your luxury rental?"

"Well, we were going to, but it doesn't seem all that appealing now," Clara replied, folding her arms across her chest. "Do you know of a cheap place nearby where we could stay for a few hours? A motel, perhaps?"

Confusion passed over Jack's blue eyes as he exclaimed, "Nonsense! You two can crash at my place; I've got the room."

"No, no—" John shook his head, already prepared to head back into the TARDIS and bolt the doors shut from potential felons. "We couldn't possibly—"

"Oh, come on!" Jack interjected, clapping the doctor on the shoulder and nearly taking him out from under his feet. "I just saved your lives! The least you can do is give me company. My husband Ianto's out of town, so the place has been desolate. I'll even let you jump on the bed—he _hates_ that."

Mirrored looks of hesitance passed over the two young traveler's faces, for the thought of sleeping in an actual bed was rather alluring. (And needless to say, Clara had been holding in her pee for the past forty minutes, and was _not,_ under any circumstances, about to pull her panties down in the alleyway they were almost mugged in.)

"We'd love to!" Clara exclaimed just as John began, "I think we're just going to—"

"Great!" Jack replied, clearly preferring the writer's response over John's. "My car's just parked 'round the corner. You two can follow me."

And with a wink, he turned from them and began jogging back towards the lighted street, coattails flapping behind him as John silently mouthed _'WHY?'_ in Clara's face. She frowned.

"I am _not_ sleeping in your snog-box," she replied flatly.

"He could be another criminal for all we know!" John argued, the sonic still in his hands, his fingers tinkering with the settings. " _This_ is how people get killed in horror movies, Clara, we are living a cinematic cliché and it's about time someone noticed."

"You're being absurd," she said, stilling his fidgeting with her two steady hands. "He saved our _lives_ just now, John."

He rolled his eyes, wanting to outlet his exasperation with an elaborate gesture had his wrists not been held in place by the young woman's astonishingly vigorous grip. "Sure, go with the _Captain's_ word but not the Doctor's."

"You threatened him with a laser pointer!"

"It's a _sonic!"_ he corrected her helplessly, unfurling his bound hands to reveal the contraption in his open palms. Clara stared at it for a long while, as if considering whether or not to take it from him and chuck it over the fence. Shaking the prospect from her mind, she closed her eyes tightly, and tried to be transparent with him.

"Look," she breathed, opening her eyes and meeting his gaze as best she could through the darkness of the street. "I agreed to go on this trip with you not because I was desperate, or inspired, or particularly spontaneous, but because...I trusted you." Her hands squeezed his wrists in an affirming grasp. "I _trust_ you. And I get the feeling that I can trust Jack, too. So please..." She shook her head, determination heavy in her stare as she uttered, "Don't make my first piss in Nevada be in that corner over there."

Amusement flitted past those green eyes, a silent understanding. And for the first in a long time, Clara's face broke out into a genuinely relieved smile, one John never realized was so relieving to see as she released him from her grip and raced back into the TARDIS without a moment's hesitation. He stood there in the shadows for a while longer, the warmth of her hands still on his wrists. He enjoyed it when she smiled like that, when there was nothing but sheer happiness that made her dimples deepen on either side of her face. No stress, no planned emotion. Just pure, transparent joy.

"Hey Doc!" Jack called from the end of the street, where his darkened silhouette stood, waving over at him. "You coming or what?"

Eyebrows furrowing at the Captain's words, John stuffed his hands into his pockets, extinguishing the feeling he had for a split-second before heading back towards the TARDIS, where a woman who could very well amaze him was sitting in the passenger seat.

* * *

"So what are two Brits doing here in Reno, Nevada?" Jack asked as they emerged from the TARDIS some twenty minutes later, their mouths agape at the elegantly-dressed house that stood before them. They had driven just outside the city perimeters, the two travelers growing more perplexed by the second as their generous host continued down the main road before turning sharply into a winding driveway, patches of watered grass stitching together to from a lush green lawn that carpeted the garden of a two-story contemporary home. When the Captain had offered his place to them for the night, Clara was expecting a flat, an apartment building with ruddy walls and loud neighbors, but never this.

"Reno?" Clara managed once her tongue began to work again, bounding to keep up with the man as he began making his way up the pebble-stone walkway towards the front entrance. "Is that the name of the city?"

"Yes ma'am, welcome to The Biggest Little City in the World!" Jack beamed proudly, fingering for his keys in his pants pocket. John had reached Clara's side by the time the door was unlocked, the three walking into the house only to be greeted by an ornately decorated living room, fixed with a leather couch that snaked around a coffee table and an impressive flat-screen television.

"You mean Reno or your house?" Clara joked, eyes wanting to soak in every detail at once. The back wall of the wide-open space was not a wall but a large glass panel, a window that allowed her to view the stars of the early morning sky, and the glowing pool that rippled gently between verdure of finely-trimmed hedges. No wonder he had invited them. This place was massive.

Jack chuckled, clearly having been through this before. "Kitchen's to your left, can I make you anything while we're at it? Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee would be nice," she replied. "Or you know what? Let me make it myself."

"Oh no, I couldn't. You're my guest—"

"You saved our lives Jack," she reassured him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "The least I can do is make you a coffee, if you're up to it. Just show me where everything is!"

She was already halfway to the kitchen before John had perched himself on the arm of the leather couch, the Captain slinging an arm around his shoulders, his voice low and sultry as he spoke. "Funny, gorgeous, _and_ willing to utilize the kitchen," he mused, looking over to the young doctor in awe. "How did you manage to nab her, Doc?"

John frowned, confused for a moment before the feeling quickly dissipated into apprehension. Shaking his head, he flustered beneath Jack's muscular grip. "Oh no, we're not...I'm not her—"

"Blimey, this kitchen is _massive!"_ Clara cried in complete elation, her giggles making the young doctor smile in admiration of her. Jack caught onto the look, saw the way her happiness diffused into his, and decided that John's words were in no way accurate of the things he truly felt. John met Jack's accusatory stare and immediately reddened, as if caught doing something entirely inappropriate.

"You were saying?"

"You have a _Samsung self-cleaning oven!_ " Clara proclaimed as she slid back into the living room, a child-like grin on her face. "You have to show me how that works."

"In a sec," Jack promised her, jutting his head towards a brightly-lit staircase to their left. "Let me show you two to your rooms first."

The Captain released his arm from John's shoulders, sauntering towards the staircase as John neared Clara with a confounded expression. And once their host was out of earshot, he hissed to her, "You're impressed by his giant microwave but not a _TARDIS_ automobile?"

Clara shrugged, unsure of what to tell him. "What can I say? Kitchenware turns me on."

The two stubbornly squeezed themselves into the tiny staircase, where Jack was already several steps ahead, having heard the entire exchange before adopting a smug smile at his accomplishment of dazzling at least _one_ of his guests that morning. And given the circumstances, he was willing to poke fun with them, as he did with anyone that came to visit. It was his trademark form of hospitality.

"So since you two aren't honeymooning or anything, I'm providing you with separate guestrooms," he announced cordially as he led the two weary travelers into a bright hallway, where several monochromatic portraits of dogs stared back at them with blithe, droopy smiles. "John, your room is to the left of the greyhound, and Clara, yours is at the end of the hallway." He then turned towards the young writer with a mischievous grin on his face. "That is, unless you'd like to share a bed with me."

Before Clara could even think of a response to his offer, the young doctor beside her seemed to suffer from an aneurysm.

"No!" John interjected, looking absolutely mortified. Clara's eyes snapped to his in complete surprise as his ears turned bright red, eyes flicking to hers as he tried to explain himself. "I-I mean, you can do whatever you like, it's not like we're...I'm not your—" Mashing his lips together, his cheeks developed a similar shade, hands loosening his bow-tie as if the hallway had suddenly grown very warm. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

Jack and Clara watched the man stalk back down the hallway, a fierce sort of determination in his stride that made her wonder if he were going to bolt out of the house entirely. Her eyes focused on the place he had been standing in, as if she could detect a faint outline of him still.

"He's just gone to collect our bags," she told their host, who merely clapped a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," he offered helpfully, guiding her to her room.


	5. What Never Happened

Jack had left Clara to her own devices after giving her a rather fastidious tour of the guest bedroom—a lavish personal chamber that included her own bathroom, desk, and walk-in closet. And although the young woman promised their host they'd only be resting for a few hours, she couldn't help but gravitate towards the collection of bath products perched atop the bathroom counter, the scents of lavender and stress relief immediately soothing her. Perhaps a bit of pampering wouldn't hurt.

"I'll be downstairs once you're finished if you still want me to show you my kitchenware," Jack winked before closing the door behind him, the note of finality reassuring Clara that that everything was going to be okay. That she was safe now.

For a good five minutes she couldn't do much else but hold herself together, her arms wrapped around her torso in a self-comforting embrace. She had stared death in the face for the first time in her entire life, and was unsure of how to recover from it. A part of her was truly convinced it had never happened at all. It almost felt like a trick, to hear her own breathing, the beating of her heart as it remained within her rib-cage, the ticking of the clock as time passed. How did life simply go on after a thing like that?

 _Easy,_ a voice inside of her said. _It's indifferent. No matter what happens or how much you're hurting, time will continue to pass._

It was a truth she had continually reminded herself of from an early age. That life goes on, with or without certain people. This was simply an instance in which Clara was incredibly lucky. If anything had gone differently tonight, if Jack hadn't arrived when he did or if John hadn't held her hand when she so desperately needed it...

 _No,_ she told herself, backing up from that ledge. She would _not_ jump into those possibilities, would not consider alternate endings when the actual one was clear and present before her. Jack had saved them, she and John were alive, and that was all that mattered.

_Then why aren't you okay?_

She dismissed the question with a quick shake of her head, promising herself that a shower was all she needed to relinquish herself from the ever-growing tension that began to build within her chest. It was a long day for her, having been whisked away by a doctor from London, nearly mugged by two Americans, and saved by another all in the span of five hours. And only two days before a potentially life-changing job interview. There was no one in their right _mind_ who could go through that unfazed, Clara convinced herself.

Streams of hot water ran down her back as she showered, the water pressure immaculate to the aching muscles in her shoulders and neck. And when she was done, she wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel, hair dripping as she exited the bathroom to reveal her suitcase and carry-on waiting patiently for her beside the bed. So John had collected them, after all.

Dressing herself in a pair of joggers and a t-shirt, Clara padded downstairs with her laptop in tow, intent on getting some coffee back into her system, and perhaps retrieving the wifi password from Jack in the process. Luckily for her, it was taped onto the fridge, alongside a code that shut off the emergency alarm and a reminder for Jack to pick up teeth-whitening strips from the grocery store. Smirking to herself, she seated herself down at the counter, and logged in without difficulty.

As if by instinct, she began tinkering with _101 Places to See_ , reviewing her drafts, replying to comments, general upkeep that could have been done later if not for her pressing impatience to connect with the online world again. Bad things seemed to happen when she went off the grid; this past hour was a testament to that. Online was where she felt the safest—if not her own home, a place that was millions of miles and an ocean away. Seeing her website load onto the screen again was the near equivalent to jumping inside of her own bed and snuggling under the sheets.

But just minutes into her reunion with the Internet, a notification appeared in the corner of her screen. It was from Instagram, who had apparently detected her absence in the past day or so and had just now decided to check if she were still alive. _O_ _zzieoswald_ (Nina's idea—she really ought to have changed it by now), _see new posts from suggested users near your location!  
_

Furrowing her brow, she hovered her cursor over the notification, and clicked on it without a moment's thought. The first few accounts she scrolled through were nothing extraordinary: low-res photos of carefree party-goers, roadies posing by the city's preeminent welcome sign ( _RENO: The Biggest Little City in the World)_ , and several snapshots of unambiguous subjects like mountains and red wine. But it was the last user that caught her attention the most, the one that had her leaning forward in her chair until her nose was a mere inch away from the screen.

Jerking back suddenly, Clara realized what she was doing, and immediately looked over her shoulder, as if expecting someone there to catch her in the moment of instantaneous attraction and curiosity.

"John?" she called out in a level-headed voice. No reply. "Jack?" Nothing from him, either.

 _Good,_ she thought to herself. The last thing she needed was for them to think she was stalking.

Especially when her person-of-interest was the doctor that had gotten her here in the first place.

_[smithtakespics] Oxford University Medical School | the one in the bow-tie_

_Of course_ _._

The rate in which Clara's heart was racing outweighed the urge to roll her eyes as she clicked on his username and waited impatiently for the pictures to load, as if she were breaching something she knew she wasn't supposed to. His profile photo was of him wearing chopsticks like they were walrus tusks—an image that was so unprecedented to her that she began to laugh out loud, the grin that accompanied it becoming a permanent asset of her expression as she continued to scroll down. She was met with several outlandish photos of him, none of them particularly cohesive with one another, but each commanding her attention as strongly as the next.

There was one of him and his friends—a man with a kind smile and a red-haired woman who stuck her tongue out at the camera—biking down some treacherous-looking path in the South Downs Way. Another was a blurry picture of him gyrating, a regular necktie wrapped around his head as if he hadn't managed to yank it off entirely. The one she was most keen towards was a selfie he took in front of a mirror wearing his white coat, the caption reading, _Amy wrote me a note in my lunch box that told me to have a great first day of clinicals and not to break anything._ Perhaps it was the big, kiddish grin on his face, or the refinement of his white coat and purple bow-tie that had her staring at the photo longer than she ought to.

"What'cha looking at?" Jack accused her as he appeared to her immediate left, Clara yelping as she slammed the screen down with a great deal of force.

"Nothing," she told him, suddenly invested in the assortment of novelty drink coasters beside them. The Captain looked at her suggestively.

"I know a guilty conscience when I see one," he replied, bounding around to the other side of the counter. "Is it just me or have I seemed to invite two cyber criminals into my house?"

"Please, the only 'hacking' I did was logging into the wifi," she said with a small smile. "I hope you don't mind."

"I typically don't, unless you're trying to extract from me classified information from Torchwood, because then I'd have to kill you," the Captain warned her dramatically, opening the dish washer before beginning to polish his collection of coffee mugs. "Are you really Clara Oswald? And is your associate really a doctor? John Smith _is_ a rather suspicious name."

"It is, isn't it?" She smirked, hopping off of her bar-stool and handing him the mugs one-by-one. "Well, I don't know enough about my associate to confirm his true identity, but I _can_ say that I'm officially and properly Clara Oswald."

He gave her a look, as if something she said didn't quite add up as he then asked, "So then how do you know the Doctor? Why are you traveling with him anyway?"

The young woman inhaled sharply, pursing her lips as she tried to equivocate the madness of her day so far into words. How could she possibly explain her dilemma to this man without making herself sound utterly credulous? "To answer your first question, I don't. Second question, I'm a writer who really needs to be somewhere at a certain time, so I just sort of...hopped along for the ride." It was a response as frank as it was enlightening to her, a response that posed the the question of whether or not she _was_ in fact too credulous, too naive and trustworthy for her own good.

But Jack only let out a surprised laugh, a glint of admiration in his eyes as he said, "So you're like a hitchhiker, then? Can't say I'm unimpressed."

She wrinkled her nose as she handed him the last mug, the words _'_ _I'm Kind of A Big Deal'_ printed in bold letters on its polished ceramic face. "I prefer the term 'companion.' I read to him the directions and he gets us there, _alive._ Dear god, I hope we make it out alive."

"Well then consider me your truest blessing," Jack crooned helpfully, lifting up the cup in thanks before shelving it into one of the many cabinets within the colossal kitchen of Clara's dreams.

She told him the unabridged version of the story as he helped her make coffee from the Keurig, the amount of drink pods he owned outnumbering the amount of coffees Clara would ever drink in her entire life, the events of her day just pooling out of her from some coiled up part of her mind, as if the words were just waiting to be expelled from her like an insipid cough. She told the Captain everything—from her brink-of-tears meltdown in the airport terminal to the terror of having a gun waved in her face—and it was only when she had finished that she realized she was stirring her coffee far more violently than she'd intended.

Settling, she plunked the spoon into the creamy concoction, and handed it to Jack. He accepted it without argument, taking a long and thoughtful sip before speaking again.

"Wow," was the first thing he said, as if it were all still soaking in. "You're really busting your ass to make it to this Wayfarer interview."

Clara groaned, leaning back on the island of the kitchen in complete exhaustion of having to mull over the situation time after time. "It means the world to me," she muttered from behind her hands, the statement more to herself than to him. "It's just, I've waited so long for something like this. I can't miss this opportunity over something so trivial as _distance;_ it's almost mocking. I travel all the time for stars' sake, and nothing like this ever happens!"

"It's a good thing you ran into the Doctor, then," Jack noted, tipping his mug off to the young man upstairs. "And who knows? Say you do make it to New York on time—which you _will_ _,_ " he reassured her, upon seeing the traces of worry on her face. "You will have had this crazy, amazing adventure and an even _more_ entertaining story to tell your interviewer. It's the perfect showcase of dedication and wanderlust, Clara Oswald!"

Biting her lip, she slowly nodded along with what he was saying. Her mother always told her that everything happened for a reason, and perhaps this was just one of those reasons. "You're right," she said after a while, sighing in consolation of the Captain's words. "You're absolutely right. Thank you."

"Not a problem," he smiled, nudging her gently with an elbow. "There's no way Wayfarer Industries could reject somebody like you. You're an eleven out of ten! Brains, beauty, and—judging by the way you handled your situation—you've got a little brawn in there too."

If not for that last bit Clara would have burst into a fit of emotional, overwhelming tears. "You do not seriously think that, do you?"

"I'm not the only one," he promised her. She didn't exactly know what he meant by that, but hugged him for it regardless.

"Thank you. Again," she told him, patting him appreciatively on the back. "You have no idea how much I needed that."

"You're welcome," he replied, squeezing her shoulders encouragingly. "Sometimes, all you need is somebody to remind you to give yourself a little more credit. To remind you of what's real and not real."

She nodded into their embrace, his cumulative scent of male hygiene products almost overwhelming as she pulled back and wiped the few tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes. Never before had she met anyone so straightforward, for he held the kind of honesty that people needed to hear, in times of both good and bad. It was as if the young writer had floated away into the open space of her own mind and was steadily being reeled back into orbit, and she was wholeheartedly grateful for it.

"Okay," Clara breathed, refusing to well up again as she locked her eyes onto the Keurig in a determined glare. "How do we work this thing again?"

* * *

He was folding the shirt he wanted to wear tomorrow—a Van Halen v-neck that Amy insisted was made for women—when he heard three sharp raps at the door. "It's open."

"I come bearing gifts," Clara announced upon entering, her elbow pushing the door open fully as she balanced two steaming beverages in each hand. John immediately dropped the band tee to relieve her of them, when she explained, "The one in my left's a coffee, and the right's chamomile. Your pick."

John paused just a few steps before her, his shoulders slumping as he raised a hand to his chin in thought. "I'll take the tea," he finally decided, taking the cup from her before giving himself the chance to reconsider. "I'm hoping to get at least five hours of sleep before heading back out again. How does ten o'clock sound? Is that good?"

Her eyes darted towards the wall clock that hung right above the bed. _4:37 a.m._ She was too exhausted to be surprised at how quickly time was running out from underneath them, but understood that if anyone had the right to be tired, it was John. In fact, as she peered across the room from above the lip of her coffee, she could see just how tired he was. Not in the way the shadows pooled around his eyes or how he ran an unsteady hand over his face, but in the way his stare flitted across the room, as if to ask, _What next?_ As if he knew this trip was far from finished, and that he'd just have to keep going. There was no other option.

"Yeah, fine with me," she reassured him, taking a generous sip of her own mug before prodding over towards the bed, where the faded t-shirt lay in a crumpled mess alongside a pair of dark-wash jeans. "Finally decided to ditch the bow-tie and braces then?"

"Hm?" The young doctor's head perked up, as if he didn't fully hear her. "Oh, yeah," a small smile broke out onto his face, the tension and tiredness there softening for a brief moment. "You know, I _am_ capable of wearing other clothes."

The corners of her mouth curved upwards as she raised the warm drink to her lips, sprawling the soft fabric across the mattress with her free hand until the design was fully visible to her. She drew her brows together in fascination. "Did you get to see them live in concert?"

"I did," he spoke with a grin on his face, the kind that carried along a specific set of memories that were uniquely his. "Though not legally. My good friend Amy and I sneaked past security because we couldn't manage to nab tickets on time. Her husband—fiancé at the time—is the most levelheaded person I know and refused to participate in the deed." His eyes glinted as he said this, as if he could see images far beyond Clara's frame of mind. And yet somehow, she understood how powerful those images could be, how transporting they were. It's what made her such a detail-oriented writer.

"Sounds...unlawful," she managed, finding amusement in her own lack of words. "Did you get caught?"

The look he gave her then was answer enough. "Nope. We shared seats with these three Irishmen from Cork, one of them was even kind enough to open my beer with his teeth!" He shook his head, leaning back against the bedpost and folding his arms across this chest. "Lovely man, he was. They were good people."

Clara furrowed her brow as she watched the whimsical emotions pass over the young doctor's face, her mind swarming with her own thoughts—such as if the two friends biking alongside John in that picture were the same two people he discussed with her now, or whether this man was even capable of feeling the tiniest bit of fear or precaution towards his actions, many of which sounded utterly forbidden to her. Was there anything on this earth that he could say no to, or did he feel as if every crazy idea was well within his reach?

"I never got the opportunity to thank you for earlier today," she started, staring into her coffee as if trying to find some sort of gift for him within the concoction of cream and sugar. "What you did back there...I could never imagine what that must've felt like, so I just wanted to let you know that I'm thankful for it. All of it."

She expected his reaction to be anything but the confused stare he gave her in return for her gushing confession. Resting her gaze atop of his in an uncanny sort of anticipation, she watched as he lowered himself down onto the mattress, tossing the Van Halen shirt aside as he asked, "And what exactly did I do to warrant such gratitude?"

Clara scoffed, unaware of the fact that he truly wasn't kidding when he asked that. "Do you not remember what happened to us? John, we were almost _mugged._ "

He nodded slowly, as if waiting for the penny to drop, but it never did. "...yeah, I know," he said plaintively, pulling the shirt into his lap and fiddling with the tag on the collar. "I was there."

It was the way he said it that threw her off-guard, as if the near-robbery they had experienced was as idle as a walk in the park, or a light dinner. And that's what caused the wave of realization to pass over her, one that rang true to the distress knotted deep within her stomach. That _this_ was the reason she wasn't feeling entirely at ease. Because John had _flung_ himself between her and that gun without a moment's hesitation, and thought absolutely nothing of it. He was unafraid, _unconvinced_ that it could do actual damage. And she saw that level of confidence in the absence of trepidation on his face.

The next time she spoke her voice was but a mere mutter. "I don't know whether to hug or swat you."

"Swat me?" Johns eyes widened, his hands on the shirt stilling. "Why on earth would you do that?"

"Because!" she exclaimed, as if her use of punctuation encompassed her entire explanation. "You...you _planted_ yourself in between me and a gun without even batting an eye! You _do_ know that a bullet won't just _bounce_ off of you, right?"

"Well, of course I know that," he replied rather hastily; he had common sense. "I just didn't really think much of it at the time."

"Exactly my point," she stressed, clutching her mug far more tightly than was necessary. "Because you _should._ You should think about things before you throw yourself in front of them." Perhaps it was the fact that she hadn't gained an ounce of sleep in the past twenty hours, or that her paranoia was reaching a breaking point, but the image of his dead body grappled onto her mind and refused to let go.

John only shook his head, a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief in his eyes as he asked, "So, so what? You'd have rather me stood next to you and have those men point a gun at your chest? What kind of a person would I be if I'd done that?"

 _A sensible one,_ she wanted to hiss at him, but knew that he was right. That if he had just stood there and watched her die, he'd never be able to forgive herself. But then again, she could say the same for him.

"I'm not upset over you risking your life for me, John," she said evenly, trying to choose the right words to explain the source of her dismay. "It just...it worries me that you look at life as if it can do nothing to you, as if you can be a hero and walk away completely unscathed." She didn't know if her argument was even valid at that point, of if she was just an emotional and mental wreck, but she pushed forward. "You were so _willing_ to take that bullet for me that it _scared_ me, John. The thought of losing the only person I knew scared me infinitely more than dying ever could."

Her words were raw with the anger in which she said them, her voice but a scratchy plea as he sat there in silence, an unreadable expression on his face. Because yes, he was frustrated with her, unable to understand why she could ever be upset about something that was intended to be good, to be selfless. He didn't see where she was coming from, and that's what frustrated him the most.

"I'm not saying that it was wrong, what you did," she breathed, wanting to take a sip of her coffee, but finding the mug to be empty. She mashed her lips together, unsure of what else to tell him, because in all honesty, she didn't know what she would've wanted to happen. "It just surprised me how little risking your life mattered to you."

Her accusation hit him in a place he hadn't felt in a long time, their intention searing against his ever-growing resentment, trying to uncover what he'd worked so hard to bury beneath the surface of his skin. How was it possible that this woman had accurately determined things about him that many who knew him for _years_ couldn't even see? How was it she was able to look straight through him, as if his self-imposed barriers were nothing to her? She had known him for a good six hours at the least. It was impossible. _She_ was impossible.

But none of those thoughts registered to his face, and if they did, she didn't say anything about it. "You would've been fine on your own," he muttered under his breath, for something told him that it would take more than just a bullet to bring her down. That if he had died right there and then, she'd fought to keep herself alive.

And it was true. She would have. In fact, under the circumstances of that actually happening, she'd derived from her state of panic several plans of escape. Some of them were illogical, such as the one that included her getting back into the TARDIS and running the two convicts over, others were more steadfast, such as acting dead. Acting as if the bullet the man had shot had passed through them both. Just the mere thought of it was enough to make Clara sick.

"No, no I wouldn't have," she said darkly, detesting the amount of faith he had in her. He was a stranger, how could he possibly know? She was never that brave, and was fully convinced that she never would be. "If I had lost you this morning—"

"You'd have had a _chance_ at surviving, and that's all that matters," he interjected, feeling an invisible sort of wall wedge itself between them. It had surprised him, to say the least, at how comfortable he was when talking to her today. Perhaps their difference of opinion was enough to finally make things uncomfortable, like two people who didn't know each other ought to be. "I will go to whatever end to keep the people around me safe, and that's something that will never, _ever_ change."

Clara remained silent for a moment, hugging the mug close to her chest. She was acutely aware of the fact that this was an argument that had no distinct right or wrong, that it would just keep going and going until someone finally gave in, and for once she was willing to be that person. Her mother had always reminded her to work on her stubbornness anyhow, and perhaps it was about time she did.

"Look, I don't know why we're arguing about something that never even happened," John said frankly, running a hand across his face in exhaustion. "It's getting late. You're probably tired."

"Yeah," she nodded, unable to protest against that. "You should get some sleep."

Sniffling, Clara massaged the bridge of her nose as she drifted towards the door, the lack of resolution between them bothering her, but not enough to keep herself fighting as she laid a hand on the doorknob and turned it, about to let herself out before—

"It's only two days," John promised her, still sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching his Van Halen shirt. "Two days, and then I promise to be out of your hair."

She wasn't aware of how much those words hurt her, not because she felt insulted, but because it revealed that John genuinely saw this trip was nothing but an inconvenience to her, a side-step towards her ultimate goal. In some ways it was true, their situation was far from ideal, but not because of him. If anything, he had been the best part about this entire thing.

Though she couldn't find the words, or the strength, to tell him that. At this point, she didn't even trust her own tongue. So she merely nodded in his direction, and closed the door behind her.


	6. Entente

_**An understanding or alliance between two nations.** _

Out of the five hours that Clara had entirely to herself, she spent not a second of them sleeping.

Her mug clamored onto the stage of the Keurig as she made her fourth cup of coffee that morning, the clock nearing six as she settled onto the bar stool of Jack's kitchen and pumped out three articles for _101 Places to See,_ her fingers flying across the keyboard in a caffeinated frenzy. Never before had she written with such fervor, and while a part of that still attributed to her pent-up rage, she refused to dwell upon anything but her work for the time being.

It wasn't until she tilted her mug towards the ceiling, not a single drop of coffee touching her lips, that she finally began to feel at a loss for words. She had talked about it all: her visit to Pier 39, the unprecedented amount of seafood she ate, and the strange shops she perused in between. What else was there to tell her readers without breaching the boundaries of something incredibly personal? She was not about to jinx her success with Wayfarer by mentioning it, and there was no _way_ she was writing about John, regardless of their dispute. It felt too intimate, as if doing so would allow _Clara_ to use her voice, not Oswin.

 _I'm a desperate twenty-four year-old who can't drive herself,_ she typed onto her drafts, stabbing each key as if she wanted to bore a hole straight through to the counter. _—who_ _has made the decision to hitchhike with a doctor she's only slightly attracted to, though now she regrets it because she's pretty sure he hates her now_ —

Stopping, Clara stared at the words in horror, and deleted them immediately.

She closed her laptop, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. Even if she wanted to, her body refused to sleep, as if her subconscious was a door propped open by caffeine. It had been a problem for her since secondary school; she'd down cup after cup and push aside sleep until the weekend, where she'd hibernate in bed until she'd eventually have to return to a place she dreaded day after day. It was a vicious cycle, one she couldn't help but fall victim to in times of distress. And apparently this was one of those times.

Wanting nothing more but to busy herself, Clara hopped off of the bar stool and began rummaging through Jack's kitchen cupboards, pulling various items from the shelves—salt, vanilla bean, eggs from the fridge. It wasn't until she lined everything up on the island that she realized she was making her mum's soufflé, a recipe she knew from heart but seldom managed to make correctly. It was an activity that required little thought, and as of now, that was exactly what she needed.

Reaching for the first of her ingredients, Clara began to bake, and quite frankly, she'd never been more dexterous at it in her entire life. She didn't know where it came from—a desperate need to get her mind off of things, or the sudden urge to punch a hole through the wall, but she performed every step without falter. From stiffly beating the concoction of egg whites and milk, to pouring the mixture into a ramekin, and chewing on her thumbnail as she anxiously watched the delicacy puff in the oven like a hot-air balloon, Clara had never felt more in tune to her mother's ways as she bustled around the kitchen like a lunatic. Ellie Oswald was a stress-baker, after all. And the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree.

_Ding!_

The young woman couldn't help but smile as she retrieved from the oven a perfect soufflé—the first in ages that hadn't emerged burnt or deflated or just plain obliterated by her unpredictable baking skills. _I ought to get angry more often_ , she thought to herself, staring at her creation in pride and a tentative sort of happiness that only came after moment upon moment of misery. Like the sun finally peeking out after hours of relentless, dreary storm.

Because out of all the things that had come from these past several hours, _this_ was the only thing Clara felt she had gotten right. And she was willing to hold onto that victory, if only for a moment, if it meant putting a pause to the storm that was this entire day.

* * *

He woke to the sound of his phone blaring.

Pinching open one eye, John barely recognized his surroundings—from the grey bed linens to the lavish drapes, and when he finally remembered, the impact was equivalent to being a hit by a large truck. The gun taking aim at the spot just between his eyes, the kindness of a single man offering his home to two strangers. The sour aftertaste of the argument he and Clara had just a few hours ago. It all came rushing towards him, leaving a pulsing headache in its wake.

Hand blindly searching for his phone on the nightstand, the young doctor squinted at the screen, and was met with the face of a familiar red-head. John stared at Amelia Pond's contact photo in bewilderment, wondering why on Earth he'd change his wallpaper from a minimalist portrait of Sputnik to _her_ , until he realized that she was calling him. Fumbling with the button on his screen, he finally accepted her request to FaceTime, and waited for the call to load.

"Doctor!" Amy's big face took up the entire screen as she grinned at her best friend. "Did I wake you?"

"...Pond," John said by means of salutation, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth as he sat up. "It's eight-thirty. I know you're a morning person and all, but—"

"It's not eight-thirty," she frowned, checking her watch for good measure. She had put on a modest amount of makeup already, and was dressed in a turquoise blouse. If anything, she looked fully prepared to take on the day with her spunky personality and three-inch high heels. "It's eleven-thirty, are you seeing straight?"

"Well, maybe I would be if you'd give me the chance to wake up—"

"Oh my god!" she gasped, suddenly glaring at him through the screen. John distanced himself from the phone, unsure of what his friend was so worked up about, but knew the expression well enough to be scared. "You're not in New York! _You_ missed your flight, didn't you?!" she accused, mumbling a curse under her breath as John stared at her, wide-eyed in realization.

"No, no, Amy, let me explain—"

"I _knew_ something had happened when you didn't phone us last night. We were just about to drive into the city to see if you had checked into your hotel!" she shouted, as if yelling loudly enough would make up for the distance he hadn't yet crossed. "Where the _hell_ — _?!_ "

"Amy, please stop screaming," a familiar voice emerged from someplace behind her. "You'll wake the neighbors."

"Rory!" John exclaimed, relieved to hear the calm disposition of her friend's husband. "It's Rory! Amy, can I talk to Rory instead? He's much more..." He paused midway, the steely look on her face just _daring_ him to say something that would further piss her off. "...masculine t-than you are. Is that a new blouse? I haven't seen it on you in pictures before, it's a lovely shade on you!"

Amy's eyes narrowed into slits, his attempt at flattery shriveling.

"Fine. You want to talk to my husband? Here he is," she spat, turning over the camera to reveal Rory in the doorway of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a scrub top and a pair of boxer briefs. He looked neither mad nor fazed by John's apparent situation, and was even quite pleased to see him. John wished he could say the same for the woman who was currently fuming from behind her cell phone.

"Hello Rory!" John greeted cheerily. Rory waved back, a toothbrush dangling from between his teeth.

"Hi Doctor," the nurse replied back plaintively, as if he had long accepted the fact that he wasn't wearing pants. "Why aren't you in yet? Has something happened?"

"Yeah," the young doctor finally admitted, scratching the back of his head. "I'm in Reno, Nevada. Got into a bit of a mix up at the airport, flight got cancelled, so now I'm driving over there."

Amy balked. " _Driving_ _—?!_ "

"Ah, brilliant. More time for lunch, then," her husband clapped his hands, looking over the top of the screen towards his wife. "Did you want to try that new Mediterranean fusion restaurant we passed the other day?"

"Doctor, why are you driving?"

"Because it's your birthday, Pond, and I'm _not_ going to miss it this time!" he insisted, tapping the screen as if to better accentuate his point.

It seemed that the couple's best friend had missed out on it all: birthday parties, graduations—he was even late to their wedding reception—and the fact that they now lived in a suburb of New York made it no easier for him. The three had known each other since grade school, and were practically inseparable until university. And it pained John to see them grow up without him.

"Ugh, don't remind me," Amy muttered, turning the camera back to her. "At this rate, my birthday's just a countdown to thirty."

"Twenty-five will look grand on you, love," Rory encouraged behind a mouthful of toothpaste.

"Twenty-four looks perfectly fine on me _now._ "

"Lawrence Bragg won the Nobel prize at twenty-five," John added helpfully.

"Oi, don't try to science your way out of this, you hear me?" she warned him, jabbing a manicured nail in his direction. "I know you're always full of stupid ideas, but this is your stupidest one yet. What makes you think you can drive over here by Wednesday? You'd have to speed! And you know I don't encourage speeding."

"It's 'cause she got a ticket yesterday for going fifty-eight on a forty-five," her husband interjected.

"It was _fifty-five_ , and would you just shut up and get dressed?" Amy snapped, eyebrows drawn together angrily as the sound of the bathroom door closing echoed in the near distance. "Doctor, if it was God's plan to have me pay a two hundred dollar fine just so I could keep you from driving over here like a lunatic, then I accept the assignment."

"You worry too much about me, Pond," John conceded, running a hand over his face. "I'm fine, I promise! I'll drive at a reasonable speed, stop to smell the roses, and before you know it, I'll be bursting out of your birthday cake singing Donna Summer."

She still didn't look convinced. "I just hate that you're having to do this whole cross-country thing by yourself. You know how I feel about you traveling alone all the time—"

A knock cut her off short, John looking up to see that Jack had poked his head through the door.

"Oh, good! You're up," the Captain grinned at him. "Clara baked a soufflé, Doc, you've gotta try it. It's heavenly. Imagine the best sex you've ever had, and then just keep going. It's like that. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna inhale the entire thing on my own if you don't come downstairs."

And with that, he shut the door. It took a few seconds for John to absorb, but once he did, the faint tinge of butter that lingered in the air suddenly made sense. His eyes returned back to his phone, where Amy sat there wide-eyed, gaping at him.

"Who was that?"

"No one," he answered far too quickly. Amy glared at him. "He's just my..." he trailed off, wondering why on Earth he had to use the word _'my.'_ As far as he was concerned, Jack wasn't _his_ anything. "...my lodger! Yes, he is my lodger."

"And who's _Clara?_ " she prodded. John grimaced.

He could have lied in the moment. He could have said that she was Jack's roommate, or wife, but the mere notion of her fulfilling either position made him queasy—and if there was anything he couldn't do, it was lie to a Pond. Nineteen years of friendship had made himself utterly transparent towards them. And now was no exception.

So he told her. He told her everything—from him and the writer's shared motivation to get to New York on time, to the moment Jack saved them earlier that morning. He still found it hard to believe it had all happened in the same day.

And when everything was out in the open for Amy to scrutinize, the first thing she said was:

"You _so_ fancy this Clara girl."

John sputtered, as if her words had physically struck him.

"I do not!" he protested, face reddening at her accusation. "What makes you think that?"

"Oh, _please_ ," Amy droned, rolling her eyes. John was one of the most intelligent people she knew, and yet he still lacked the ability to recognize the most basic of human emotions—especially his own. "The cappuccino? The TARDIS? Doctor, you were about to take a bullet for this girl! If it had been me, you'd have used me as a human shield."

"Not true," John grumbled. His friend only huffed in reply.

"Why else would you have invited her to come with you, then?" she asked. "You hardly invite anyone to travel with you, let alone people you've only just met."

"Because she needed _help!"_ John insisted, fully convinced that was the only reason. "Because I _met her_ and she's witty, and funny, and one of the few people who actually deserves to get what they're going after. And if that means paying six-hundred dollars' worth of speeding tickets, then...then to hell with my retirement savings."

He wanted to get the point across that he wasn't doing this for himself. Somehow, that only convinced Amy more.

"Besides," he confessed, falling back on his pillow in exhaustion. "She's mad at me. I don't even think she enjoys being in my company very much."

"And why's that?"

"She thinks I risk my life too often without thinking about it."

Amy scoffed. "You _do_ risk your life too often without thinking about it."

"Oi, why are you agreeing with her? You never agree with anyone! It's in your DNA to disagree!"

"Because it's true!" she exclaimed, secretly glad he had found someone sharp enough to call him out on it.

John, on the other hand, grew quiet on his end of the call, unsure of how to respond, or whether to say anything at all. Amy sighed.

"Doctor, I don't think she's mad at you because she doesn't like you, she's mad at you because she's _worried_ for you. She doesn't know you the way Rory and I know you; she doesn't know why you do the things you do. So of course she's going to be a little wary when you jump the gun! Figuratively and literally."

The young doctor merely shifted in the bed that wasn't his, at a loss for words against those of his friend. He wasn't just at a loss for words, he was at a loss for _thoughts_ ; all that occupied his brain was the look Clara gave him before leaving his room earlier that morning. He couldn't tell whether she was just tired or if she had actually teared up, but something in her eyes magnified their shade of brown, her distressed expression bothering him more than it should have. He didn't want her to feel sad two days before her big interview. He didn't want her to feel sad, _period._

"Ready to go?" Rory asked Amy when he returned, his scrub bottoms on and his hospital badge clipped on. He appeared onscreen briefly to give his wife a quick kiss. "Is there anything we can do to help you out over there, Doctor?"

John smiled. Rory was always the most caring out of the three of them. "If you could phone United Airlines and tell them to pick me up on Interstate 80, that'd be great."

"I don't think he needs our help, Rory," Amy argued, a deliberate smile on her lips. "He's got Clara to help him now."

"Clara?" Rory asked. John didn't need to see him to know that he'd raised his eyebrows at this. "Clara who?"

"Clara Oswald, that's who," John snapped, refusing to look his two friends in the eye. "She's a girl from London I so happened to meet at the airport, and now we're driving to New York together in a rental, and that's _all_ , so _don't_ get any ideas!" He pointed in their direction, his fingerprint smearing the camera lens. "Now go, shoo, eat your Mediterranean fusion food and engage in the baseball civil war, or whatever the hell you New Yorker's do in your free time."

The couple wished him the best on the drive over there, and ended the call shortly after that. John let the phone fall from his hand and into his lap, his ears ringing at the newfound silence, as if they sought to hear the remainders of his friend's voices. He once feared he'd forget what they sounded like, and it wasn't until he called them, or at least heard their voicemail, that he could feel properly settled again.

He padded into an empty kitchen minutes later, one-fourth a soufflé sitting in its ramekin on the counter, as if it had been waiting there for him this entire time. It felt wrong to eat it knowing that Clara was likely still upset with him, but the longer he stared at it, the more his mouth watered. The only things in his system right now were graham crackers, coffee, and camomile tea; surely the young writer didn't dislike him so much as to starve him. He was her ride out of this place, after all.

So grabbing a utensil from the dishwasher and sitting himself down, John took a tentative forkful of the soufflé and shoved it into his mouth. Perhaps if he did it quickly enough, it wouldn't feel like he was committing a crime. A second passed. Two. And then he was dropping the fork, pressing his hands into his face, and willing the uneasy feeling in his stomach to go away.

Because it was the best soufflé he'd ever tasted.

And it was almost unfair to him that he kept on finding reasons to like Clara Oswald.

* * *

"Are you sure I can't just stay in your house forever?" Clara asked Jack as she reached up to hug him once more. He hugged back reassuringly, the firmness of his embrace steadying her like a stand might a porcelain doll.

"I'm sure Ianto wouldn't mind the help; he's always nagging me about how we don't use the kitchen enough," he admitted, pulling away from her and shielding his eyes from the blinding morning sun. "But never-mind the old couple, you've got a city to conquer on the East Coast!"

Clara tried to smile at that, though she was sure it had come off as a grimace. She hadn't exchanged a word with John when she tried to shove her suitcase into the back of the TARDIS, and he hadn't said anything after taking it from her to do it himself. If was as if neither of them knew exactly where the other stood in regards to one another, like they were playing a game of chess and had forgotten whose turn it was. Clara didn't know if she could tolerate it for another two days.

She glanced over at John from across the driveway and almost immediately regretted it, for only in resignation did she begin to _notice_ things about him. Like how his green eyes held a flicker of gold that shone especially when he concentrated on something, or the way he ran his fingers through his hair as if he had an ounce of control over the way it flopped over his forty-acre forehead. He was wearing his Van Halen t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, and it was so unfair that he looked like that when Clara was clearly trying _not_ to look at him.

"Doc," Jack said solemnly as he approached, extending his hand out towards the young doctor for a shake, which only turned into a hug as John nearly suffocated beneath the man's ravishing grip.

"Thank you for letting us stay," he wheezed, breathless.

"Anytime," the Captain promised, releasing him from his grip but still keeping him in place by the shoulders. "Just promise me you won't get into any trouble in any other American city but Reno, okay?"

"I'll try, but I can't make any promises," he warned him truthfully. "If anything, Clara will be there to keep me in check."

The words had come out without warning, from the part of his brain he didn't think needed to be put under observation until now. Three and a half hours of sleep made him say a myriad of things he wished he hadn't, but perhaps a tall coffee would get him to where he needed to be. He thought back to what Amy had said to him earlier.

_He's got Clara to help him now._

What exactly had she meant by that?

Clutching the keys in a tight fist, John clapped Jack on the back once more, and stepped into the driver's seat of the TARDIS, Clara following suit only after she hugged Jack once more. She had kept a firm distance between them up until the last possible moment, John almost glad she hadn't heard the exchange as he switched the gear into drive and backed out of the driveway, the silence between them almost bearable as they waved goodbye to the one person they didn't want to relinquish just yet. Never had they met someone so generous as to open their house to two strangers. Captain Jack Harkness saluted the two before retreating back into the solitude of his own home.

It wasn't until the place was no longer visible from the road that Clara officially felt the tension hanging in the air, as dry as the cracked earth that surrounded them on either sides. In truth, she wanted nothing more but to put this entire dispute behind them. She couldn't count the amount of times she had poured over the conversation in her head, his confused looks and her trivial accusations, battering her brain left and right until she felt properly ashamed. She had no right to accuse him like that, to discourage him from being good. Because he was. Deep down, she knew what his intentions were.

But before she could open her mouth to apologize, John spoke up first, his voice curt and polite as he asked, "Did you sleep well?"

Clara mashed her lips together, wringing her hands in her lap. "Yes."

 _Lie._ It tasted foul, but she swallowed it down as she looked up at him and smiled as best she could without wincing. She had a few extra minutes that morning to dab some concealer under her eyes and coat her lashes in mascara—she was even wearing an outfit she didn't feel completely indolent in: a sheer button-up, a pair of starched navy shorts, and dark tights.

 _"Fake it 'till you make it, honey,"_ Nina had always said, mostly to herself every time she went to work hungover.

"And you?" she asked, picking at her nails. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, yeah. Slept just fine," John breathed. Clara saw that his knuckles were growing white on the steering wheel. "Well, as fine as I could in three hours and thirty minutes. Amy called, nearly obliterated me when she found I wasn't in New York yet."

"Van Halen Amy?" she asked. As if there could be any other Amy. John laughed tightly.

"That's the one," he replied. "Her and her husband Rory live in the suburbs of the city. She's the one having the birthday party this week, actually."

"Oh," was all Clara could say to that, and nodded.

Is this how the rest of their trip was going to go? Quick bursts of small talk that eventually descended into unbearable silence? They had only been on the road for two minutes and she was already growing infuriated because of it. And she was pretty sure he was, too, judging by the way his hands gripped the wheel as if he wanted to dislocate it from the dashboard. If they were going to spend the next forty-or-so hours sitting next to each other, then she wanted them to be worth it.

"John," Clara started, unsure of where she was going with this. "About what I said this morning...it was uncalled for. I was being ungrateful to you, and you didn't deserve that. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry. And thank you. Thank you for looking after me."

There. She said it. And was now eagerly awaiting his response, unable to meet his eye as she fiddled with the ring on her finger, the skin beneath it turning red. He remained quiet for a long while, his eyes so focused on the road that he could have passed a kidney stone with that amount of concentration. Clara thought he wasn't going to say anything at all, until—

"You don't need to apologize for worrying, Clara," he finally said, his voice strained as he spoke. "If anything, it's _me_ who should be apologizing, thanking you for looking after me. People are rarely around enough to do so."

"That's not true," she insisted, thinking back to the picture of him and his friends. "You have Amy and Rory."

A pained expression crossed his features. "Amy and Rory have always been an integral part of my life, and they always will be, but...they have their life set out already, and it's _great._ It's fantastic. And it's also three-thousand miles and an ocean away, hence the whole driving-to-New-York-debacle." He laughed, almost bitterly. "I cling to them too often. I really ought to stop."

"I bet they don't see it that way," she replied, resisting the urge to rest her hand on his. "My mother always told me that it was good to cling, to hold onto the things you care about. Because you never know when they'll be gone."

"She sounds like the best kind of mother," he smiled, glancing over to see that she was smiling, too, but for reasons entirely her own. Clara nodded.

"She really was."

He should have just left it at that. Should have just dropped the subject and moved on. But the way her voice tipped on that last word caught his attention.

"...was?"

Clara swallowed, afraid he might have asked. Nodding again, she slipped the ring from her finger, and held it between her palms.

"She died of leukemia when I was sixteen."

The words left the tip of her tongue and she immediately felt off-centered, because it still felt wrong to actually admit that her mother was gone, and had been for eight years now. It was as if only yesterday she had been helping her daughter pick out a dress for winter formal, discussing what universities Clara wanted to attend, the places she wanted to see when she was older. They were even planning to travel to Korea after her secondary school graduation.

Ellie Oswald hadn't the slightest room for hatred in her heart, and Clara blamed the universe for a long time for betraying her mother in that way, for taking the life of someone who in no way deserved it. Things like death didn't just _happen_ to people like her. And admitting to herself that it actually had was the hardest thing for Clara to overcome.

"Ever since then, I had taught myself to tread carefully," she explained. "To confide in few, because who knows when you'll lose someone next? I don't think I can handle that kind of pain again." She looked down at the ring that sat in the midst of her palm, the only tangible thing left of her mother she owned. "When she had told me to cling, I did. But I prevented myself from holding onto anything that may have actually mattered to me."

It was why she had only managed to maintain one stable relationship in her life—and even that was futile since the beginning. It was why she bottled her pain and ran from anyone who dared ask how she was or if she was coping or if things were better when they obviously weren't. It was why when she looked at John, she couldn't understand how he lived so impulsively when life itself was such a delicate thing.

"I guess that's kind of why I freaked out, earlier this morning," she admitted, a small huff of amusement escaping her lips.

It was a subtle confession, but honest enough for John to understand. Honest enough for him to say, "I know this is in no way a consolation, but...I've experienced similar."

Clara looked up from her lap, the question in her eyes urging for him to continue.

"I was in my first year of medical school when I lost my parents to a car accident," he offered, extending this broken piece of himself not to make her feel better necessarily, but perhaps to let her know that she wasn't alone. "They always told me to live as much as I possibly could, so when they passed, I did exactly as they said. I'm taking from life the things that they could never experience, making up for the days they will never get to spend." He wore a mirthless sort of smile on his face as he said, "I guess that's why I didn't freak out _enough_."

"...I'm sorry."

She didn't know exactly what for, whether it be her judgment without understanding, or the fact that he had lost both parents at once. All she knew was that she meant what she said. She meant it wholeheartedly.

John glanced at her, his face sincere. "Me too."

The silence that followed felt heavy with the confessions now unfurled between them, an entente in which both Clara and John now saw what the other couldn't previously see. They both realized that vulnerability was not a weakness, but a strength that brought them both to a mutual understanding of one another. For though they thought separately, they were shaped by a similar loss.

And knowing that made all the difference.


	7. Checks and Balances

_**A fundamental principle of American politics, whereby each branch of government has some measure of influence over the another.  
** _

"Did they travel a lot? Your parents?"

"No, not really," he mused, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in tune to the music they were listening to. ( _'Come On Eileen'_ by Dexys Midnight Runners would be stuck in Clara's head for the remainder of the trip—but then again, she said that about every song on John's playlist.) "They were mainly invested in their company; it was like their brain child, which left me to be labelled as 'the accidental offspring.'"

Clara laughed, nibbling on a graham cracker. She was really growing tired of eating just graham crackers; they left her mouth dry and they hadn't any bottled water, but it was the only thing in the car and it gave her something to do with her hands.

"What was the company?"

"A computer security provider," he drawled, as if it was the most anti-climactic thing ever. "Gallifrey Anti-Virus, _'universal security at your fingertips.'"_

"No way," she said behind a full mouth, turning in her seat to face him fully. "I use that provider!"

"Really?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, nearly spitting on him. "Been using it for years, it's never disappointed me."

"Blimey, my parents would have _loved_ you," John chuckled, jutting his chin towards the box in Clara's lap. She fished out a graham cracker and placed it in his open palm. "Had they still been alive they would've exploited you for their marketing campaigns."

"Wait, so those people in their commercials aren't highly satisfied customers?"

"More so highly rewarded actors, but I'm glad they came across as so," he remarked, readjusting the sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

It was nearing twelve o'clock and the Nevada sun was scorching down upon them, the air conditioner put on full blast as they traveled down the liquid black road of Interstate 80. Clara had long since tied her hair back into a twist, using one of the empty snack boxes to fan the thin layer of sweat that had appeared along the curve of her neck. Summer was rather dependent on the state, she had learned in the past several hours, for she was not prepared for this sweltering of a heat as compared to the much cooler Californian coastline.

"Did you assume ownership of the company after the accident?" Clara asked out of sheer curiosity, realizing a second later that she had no idea the boundaries John held in regards to discussing money, especially when it was so closely connected to such a fragile topic as his parents. "You don't need to answer that if you don't want to."

"No, no, it's alright," John reassured her; he had expected the question to come up sooner or later. "I did, for about a month or so, before selling it over to UNIT, another popular Internet security agency. The CEO had been close friends with my parents for years, and she of all people knew—or rather, _understood_ why I was in no position to run Gallifrey by myself."

"Twenty-two is a young age to hold that much power," Clara replied thoughtfully. John nodded his head.

"At twenty-two, I was more concerned with what I was having for dinner, or if that girl at the bar was going to call me back—she never did," he said ruefully, earning him a chuckle from the young woman beside him. "I had no idea what to do with the money that was left from me playing shop. I'm still thinking about it, actually. There's charities, but which one? I could open a non-profit, non-profits are cool, but what for? I just...I want it to _mean_ something. Does that make any sense?"

There was a fervor in his eyes that she hadn't seen before, that hint of gold amassed in a sea of green. And she admired him all the more for it.

"So you've been traveling in the meantime?" she asked quietly—any louder and she might have disrupted his thought process.

"Perhaps by traveling, I'll get a better idea of what I want," he responded, his gaze stretching far beyond the road ahead of them. "When I told those robbers that I had nothing, I was lying. I paid to rent out this car, and I can pay off my school without taking out a loan. I can choose to go wherever and whenever I want, and there's nothing preventing me from buying all nine seasons of _'How I Met Your Mother'_ on DVD and Blu-Ray, except the fact that I bawl like a baby every time I watch the finale."

His tone held not the slightest bit of arrogance. If anything, he sounded overwhelmed by the amount of things he could do. Clara had never seriously aspired a lavish lifestyle, but could see how it would be tempting, especially if the opportunity were right in front of you. Seeing John talk about it now made her realize that he was afraid to use his parents' wealth for the wrong reasons, in fear of turning selfish while also remembering to count his blessings. It was a dilemma she could detect but still decided to question in the end.

"Does knowing you could afford all of that scare you?"

He was silent for a moment, considering his response.

"I'm grateful. I'm grateful for all of it Clara, but...it's not mine. If not for my parent's death, I'd be living off of ramen noodles and tap water. In fact, I _should_ be living off of ramen noodles and tap water if it means I wouldn't feel guilty whenever I pay for dinner or book a last-minute flight to God-knows-where."

"They'd have wanted you to use the money, John."

"Perhaps," he said, furrowing his brow. "I just wish they'd come back for a minute to tell me _how_."

"Only a minute?" she asked, an amused smile on her lips.

"Heaven sounds like a pretty cool place. I wouldn't want to keep them for too long."

They continued down the road and gradually settled themselves into his music, John turning up the volume as _'Take On Me'_ filled the speaker system. It was almost impossible not to sing along as John played air-keyboard whilst managing the wheel, the two travelers doing a terrible job of hitting the high notes but trying all the same. The song ended with them in hysterics, Clara clutching her stomach in the sort of pain that only came from the best kind of laughter.

"Are you hungry?" she asked afterwards, realizing that the pain wasn't just a side-effect of laughing. He almost looked relieved she had asked.

"Starving. My stomach's been growling since Duran Duran."

"Duran Duran—?" Clara turned towards him in her seat, lowering her makeshift fan to make sure he saw her disbelief. "But that was miles ago! How did I not hear that?"

He merely glanced over at her, _'Take On Me'_ going for a second round as he raised the volume a little higher.

* * *

"Can I ask you something, Doctor?"

John looked up from his burger, ketchup dribbling down his chin as he stared at her in dubiety. They were parked outside a Sonic, where it took them six minutes to figure out how to order, and another five to determine what they wanted from the menu that was a culinary equivalent to the last Harry Potter book, or the Bible. It was _that_ extensive.

"Since when did you start calling me Doctor?"

Her brown eyes flicked to his from the top of her cherry limeade. It made her tongue red and would probably give her kidneys hell later, but she was tired and decided that if she deserved anything in this world, it was a beverage that exceeded her caloric intake for the entire year.

"Ever since...now, I suppose," she replied, slurping on her straw as she tried to gauge his reaction. "I dunno, I thought I'd give it a go. Is it too weird?"

"No, no, it's just—" He paused to swallow as she handed him a napkin. "—only Amy and Rory ever call me that, and they're my closest friends." He paused, and then, like a runner breaking out into a sprint, began again. "N-Not that I'm implying that you and I aren't—well, that is, only if you consider us to be. You know. _Friends._ We've known each other for what—eleven, twelve hours? Does that count—?"

Clara's laugh cut him off, and he didn't know what it was about her, whether it be the equal balance of amusement between her smile and her eyes, or the fact that her lips were stained cherry red, but it immediately quieted him. She put her sweating plastic cup into its holder and hitched her legs up onto the seat; she was small enough to do so without trouble.

"I think that with everything we've been through, Doctor," she said, the name rolling off her tongue as if she'd called him that a thousand times before. "Friendship is definitely on the table."

"Good, good," he nodded, suddenly conscious of the burger in his hands; it was beginning to feel like a stage prop. He took a tentative bite and forced himself to chew.

"Besides," she teased, curling up in her seat. "Anything's better than Chin Boy, right?"

John smiled around his food but kept his eyes trained on the dashboard, as if staring directly at her would only reveal a truth that he wasn't quite ready to admit to himself. He had coined the nickname _'The Doctor'_ long before he was even accepted into medical school; in fact, he had invented it for himself in Mrs. Montague's year one primary school class—where he had used a set of stubby crayons to depict himself wearing a head mirror and stethoscope on a sheet of tan construction paper. They had presented their drawings to the class, and being the only aspiring physician, he took pride in the role, and dedicated himself to it at a young age.

 _"Are you okay?"_ he asked a boy on the playground once during recess time—he had toppled from the balance beam and was now inspecting a scrape on his hand with a pair of scrupulous green eyes. They were like his, only paler. Like the green tea matcha his mum always made for herself.

The boy jabbed a finger at the girl only a few feet ahead, her red hair fiery beneath the blazing sun.

 _"Amelia pushed me,"_ he said, the words more of an observation than an accusation.

 _"Did not!"_ she cried back stubbornly, folding her arms across her chest. John couldn't tell whether she was cross because her hair was red, or if her hair was red because she was cross. _"I tapped you on the shoulder and you were so surprised you fell over!"_

 _"Oh,"_ John blinked, unsure of who to believe. Nevertheless, he dug around in the pocket of his school shorts, his chubby fingers clasping around the one thing he knew would make the situation better. _"Do you need a band-aid?"_

The boy looked from him to his bleeding palm, then back to him again. _"Yes, please."_

 _"Aren't you the one who wants to be a doctor when they grow up?"_ Amelia asked, trotting over to them. Up close, he noticed that she had green eyes, too. Maybe that meant that they were all connected, somehow. His parents were always telling him how everyone was connected at some point in time.

John smiled, glad she had remembered him in such a way. _"Yes! Yes I am. I want to take care of people when I'm older, like my parents take care of me."_

His parents weren't doctors, but there was a special feeling that settled right in his chest whenever his mum made him soup when he was sick, or when his dad bandaged him up and tucked him in blankets whenever he fell from his bike—which happened rather frequently. He hadn't identified the feeling as being loved unconditionally, but knew it as well as any other emotion. It was so warm and made him so happy that he wanted to extend it out to others so that they could feel it, too.

 _"Well,"_ Amelia said, peering over at her victim as he pat the band-aid delicately onto his injured palm. _"You took care of Rory good enough."_

John's eyes sparkled in delight; he'd never had a patient before. The boy—Rory—extended his hand out to his two classmates, as if to confer that the band-aid had indeed done its job.

 _"All better now,"_ he said with a blunt nod of his head, tufts of light brown hair falling in his eyes. He pushed it back with his uninjured hand to smile at his new friend. _"Thank you, Doctor."_

Seldom did they call him anything else after that.

To them, the nickname was a lifelong fact, a promise he had made to himself to help anyone he could within his power—it just so happened to integrate itself so deeply with his profession. Had he not gone to medical school, Amy and Rory still would have addressed him as The Doctor, for that was what they knew him as. It was more than just a title; it was a name, and like any other name in the universe, it held meaning.

Which was why he was slightly in awe, hearing Clara call him that for the first time. For not only did he see in her a new friend, this captivating young woman whom he wished to have met earlier in life, just so he could get the chance to talk to her more, but a person who had worried for him in a moment when no one else would have. Who held a perspective that was so unlike his own but made perfect sense.

As maudlin as it was, he felt the meaning of the nickname open up to her in that moment, as if she, too, were now a part of it.

"Sorry," John finally blurted out, shutting his eyes tight as he tried to redirect himself to their conversation. (Was it the lack of sleep that had turned his brain to mush—both physically and sentimentally?) "You were going to ask me something."

"I forgot what it was," Clara admitted around her straw, on the near-verge of developing brain freeze as she suddenly exclaimed, "Ah—yes!" She laughed a little uneasily, stirring her ice with her straw as she propped her feet up on the dashboard. "Where _exactly_ are we going?"

It was an unexpected question, to say the least. John's brow furrowed.

"...I thought you knew?" he said confusedly, the crinkling sound of his food wrapper suddenly much louder than usual. Were they talking about the same thing? He decided in that moment to give her tips in case she'd forgotten. "The Big Apple? The City that Never Sleeps? Frank Sinatra loved it so much, he sang it like, twenty times—"

"No, no, I know _that_ ," she snapped, frowning at him. "What I meant was, what lies in between? I mean, there are hundreds of miles between now and New York; what do we do with them? Where do we go, what do we see?"

_Are you up for an adventure?_

The young doctor found himself nodding, the confusion in his eyes slowly dissipating into a clarity so striking it nearly caught Clara amiss as he said, "Well, everything and anything we want, Clara Oswald. With regards to that interview you have in—" He checked his wrist watch. "—how many hours?"

"It's on Wednesday at six p.m."

It took a moment to do the math.

"Fifty-four hours!" John exclaimed, face twisting into a grimace as he suddenly realized the severity of their dilemma. "We can do it. Fifty-four hours of driving. Fifty-four hours of fun."

 _Fifty-four hours of complete insanity,_ Clara thought to herself, but quickly shook her head to dismiss the thought. She was twenty-four and traveling—she did _not_ need to be bothered by the possibility that she may clock out one day due to chronic stress, and she certainly didn't need to fret over things that were already under her control. They were going to get there on time, whether time liked it or not.

And in the meantime, she was going to enjoy herself. Even if it was at the bottom of her to-do list.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That we need to buy more tater-tots?" John asked from beside her, popping the last of them into his mouth. "Because they're gone now, and I'd really like it if they weren't."

"I'm suggesting we have fun while we're at it," she said with a curt nod, as if allowing oneself to have fun was a conscience decision. In some ways, it was. "You're stuck with me for fifty-four hours, you at least deserve a proper holiday."

" _We_ deserve a proper holiday," he corrected her, stuffing the last of his burger into his mouth and crumpling the wrapper into a ball. He tossed it into the back of the car. "And I know the perfect way to go about it."

Shooing Clara's legs off of the dashboard, he opened the glove compartment, and retrieved from it a thick road map. Clara wondered if it came with the car, or if he was just severely prepared, but neither conclusion satisfied the bewilderment on her face as he unfurled it—cities and interstates exploding from the paper in thin veins and stark colors. He may as well have opened a parachute inside the car. The thing was massive.

"Oh," was all Clara could manage, watching as he struggled to open it fully without being swallowed. She knew her five pages of inflexible one-way instructions would be abandoned at some point, but the thought of making the directions herself made her uneasy. "Can't we just use the built-in GPS?"

"The GPS?" John breathed in disbelief. "This is an authentic United States road map—it doesn't get any better than this!" He clutched at the paper as if it were pages of the holy gospel, the passionate look in his eyes unable to cancel out her look of sheer hesitance. He dropped his hands to his lap, Wisconsin and Montana crinkling beneath his palms. "Why not?" he pleaded, jutting out his bottom lip for good measure. "Have you no sense of wanderlust?"

"I left it back in 1989," she replied dryly.

"Hey, that was a good year," he pointed out. "It was the year of Nintendo's first Game Boy, Back to the Future Part II, and _leather blazers!"_ He said this with such conviction that Clara didn't doubt he owned one for himself. "Tell me that isn't the coolest thing you've ever heard of, Clara. Isn't that the coolest thing you've ever heard of?"

She found herself nodding absentmindedly. "Leather blazers are...the coolest things I've ever heard of."

"Right?!" he beamed, shaking his head in awe. "Technology and fashion may have been on the rise, but road trips...they were _meant_ for getting lost in, for finding yourself in the most unexpected of circumstances and pulling yourself out and finding you've become a slightly better person." He used his hands when he spoke, tracing zealous gestures in the air as if he could create pictures and reference tangible feelings from thin air. It was hard not to be swayed by other people's passions, she realized. "What have you got against using a map?"

Clara mashed her lips together, allowing his deliverance to settle before saying, "Well, for one, you're holding it upside down."

John frowned as he did a double-take at the upended United States. "Oh, I suppose you're right. I knew Cuba wasn't in the Pacific Northwest."

"Secondly," she continued, reaching across the center console to help him flip it; the task was more difficult than it should have been. The corner of the North Atlantic Ocean nearly put her eye out. "I just don't trust myself and maps! They're like those overly complicated mazes of the backs of children's menus."

"I love those," he said quietly.

"So not the point."

"I'll make you a deal, then," John proposed. "We'll use the map for the remainder of the trip, and you can plan it out!"

Clara blinked, waiting for her part of the compromise. "That is literally no consolation."

"No, no—" He resisted the urge to smack his palm against his forehead. "—what I meant to say was, if we use the map, you can decide where we go. We can even have a system!" He gestured frenetically between the two of them. "It'll be like checks and balances: you can tell me when I'm being too spontaneous, and I can tell you when you're..."

She raised an eyebrow. Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, John decided that his proposals sounded much better inside of his head.

"...being lovely. As always." He flashed her a smile. Clara sighed, for she could think of a few words she might have used. _Sheltered. Cynical. A control freak._ "I just don't want you to miss out on anything because you were afraid to try something new," he finished gently, the map rustling as he turned to face her fully in his seat. She was hesitant to look at him, because she knew that if she did, she'd fall into his gaze without ever possibly finding a way out.

It still didn't make matters easier.

"Fine," she said stubbornly. "But if we're going to use a map, then we're going to use it right," she proclaimed, reaching behind her for her backpack and pulling from the front pocket a red sharpie she only used on special occasions—when words and markings were so important she needed everyone within a mile radius to see them.

Snatching the map from his side of the console, she uncapped the permanent marker with her teeth, scanning for Interstate 80 as she felt his gaze at her immediate left. She lifted her head slowly to meet John's eye and she asked, "What?"

He was wearing one of those goofy smiles, derived from the kind of joy that made your head spin and your stomach buzz. It was the way his excitement soared when he flew though a book, the fear of walking into a residency interview, and the intimacy of knowing a secret all rolled into one, and then some. He wished he could capsule the feeling into a pill so he could put it aside and study it later.

"Nothing," he told her. Not because it was the truth, but because he'd make a fool of himself right then and there if he said he was attracted to her—with her hair in a bun, the red cap between her teeth, and that look in her eyes as if she were going to sear her pen straight through the paper.

Wayfarer would be foolish not to partner with someone like her, someone so precise, so driven. He certainly wasn't as driven as her when he was twenty-four, nor had those conditions changed in the past two years. Perhaps he could learn a thing or two from her in these next fifty-four hours.

"Aha! There," Clara grinned from the passenger seat. She had folded the map accordion-style, the parts of the country they wouldn't be visiting tucked neatly back, as if being saved for a later time. The paper was pleated in such a way that if you were to extend it, the entire length of Interstate 80 unfurled at your fingertips in one organized, concentrated line. She was brilliant, and John realized—not for the first time—that he'd made the right decision in inviting her with him.

"I never would have thought of that," he admitted. She tilted her head slightly.

"Of course," she said, smiling up at him cheekily. "It's why you need me."

She pointed to a line she had drawn from their estimated place on the map to their next destination, John squinting at the city she had starred before giving her a nod of approval. She beamed.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied with a grin, and turned the radio on.


	8. Dr. and Mrs. Smith

"HELLOO SALT LAAKE!" The Doctor hollered when he got out of the car, the sun warming his face as he beheld their new surroundings with a weary yet optimistic smile. Clara got out beside him, peering over at the man over the top of the car. She eyed him warily.

"You need sleep."

"I've never been to Utah before," he continued, rubbing his hands together excitedly. "Maybe we'll get to meet a Mormon on a missionary! Do you think we'll meet a Mormon here, Clara?"

Perhaps it was his blue-stained lips from the blueberry limeade he was drinking, or the fact that he'd been driving for five hours straight, but Clara suggested they stop at a motel for a few hours to crash. The Doctor was clearly growing delirious with each passing second he spent staring out at the open road, his hands fidgeting from sugar-rush since they'd crossed the state border, eyes turning glassy with fatigue. Clara began to worry that he wouldn't make it another mile, let alone eight more states. She was seriously considering driving _for_ him, which, on any other occasion, would be completely out of the question.

They gathered up their necessities and ambled into the small lobby, where an elderly woman with gentle white curls and an amiable disposition looked up at them from her cross-word puzzle. Clara drew up her luggage to the front counter and smiled, while The Doctor plucked a services pamphlet from the stack on the coffee table and began to toddle around like a child about to pass out from exhilaration. Her smile only tightened in concern.

"Hello!" she greeted, folding her hands on the counter politely. "We'd like to book a room for a few hours."

The woman's eyes only crinkled with an expression she couldn't quite place as she replied, "Of course! Are you two celebrating your honeymoon with us this evening?"

The Doctor stopped pacing.

Clara blinked, her smile faltering as she looked from the woman to the ring situated on her fourth finger. It was an easy mistake, but it didn't make the situation any less difficult to navigate as she tried to formulate a response around her sleep-deprived brain. "Uh..."

She heard The Doctor come up beside her, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "We get forty percent off our total charge at checkout."

"Yes we are!" Clara exclaimed enthusiastically, her eyes darting to his as he gave her his best thumbs-up and pointed to the pamphlet in reassurance. She was so going to kill him for this, discount or not.

"Lovely!" the woman gleamed, setting her newspaper aside and shaking her desktop mouse to wake up the computer. "I just need a valid ID and a credit card number..."

The Doctor supplied this easily, leaning against the counter and answering the hostess's burning questions regarding the marriage Clara hadn't realized she'd agreed to until now.

The ceremony was small, no more than their intimate friends and family, held in the backyard of Clara's childhood home back in Blackpool. He had cried, obviously, but she held him together in the end, the two sharing teary smiles as they agreed to spend the rest of their lives together. Every elaborate question the old woman had was provided with an equally as elaborate of a response, The Doctor's performance so convincing that Clara was almost beginning to believe him.

"Beautiful. Just beautiful," the woman crooned as she handed him back his belongings and a room key (it was _actually_ a silver key, attached to a tag that read _Room_ _11_ in red script). "Well, I hope you have a fantastic time here in Salt Lake, Dr. and Mrs. Smith."

"Oswald-Smith," Clara corrected her without thinking. The grin on The Doctor's face was unbearable.

"Of course," the old woman smiled, nodding in empathy as the waved them off. "You two have a nice evening, now!"

They carted their luggage into the cramped lift, Clara squeezing herself into the corner as the doors slid closed right behind The Doctor's back. He jabbed the button for the second floor and she sighed, tilting her head back to stare at her muggy reflection in the ceiling. The dark circles around her eyes were growing more and more visible by the second.

"How did you know I was from Blackpool?" she asked, feeling the lift shudder and shake as it ascended. The Doctor gave her a sidelong glance.

"It says so on your luggage tag," he replied.

Frowning, Clara reached down and turned over the card fastened around the handle of her luggage, and to her surprise, he was right. In her sixteen year-old handwriting she had scrawled down her old phone number and address; she'd had this red suitcase for years and didn't even think to change it when she moved. She really ought to do something about that.

"That woman probably thinks we're crazy," she prompted tiredly, massaging the inner corners of her eyes. "What couple from London has their honeymoon in Salt Lake City, Utah?"

"Come on, there's loads of romantic things to do here in Salt Lake!" The Doctor defended, looking down at his pamphlet for reference. "We could visit the Pony Express trail, or the Beehive House—mid-19th century home of Brigham Young. Or—! Or, we could visit the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, according to this, they have an organ with 11, 623 pipes—that'll be sure to convince her."

Clara let out an amused laugh, watching as The Doctor stumbled backwards upon the doors opening up to their designated floor. "At this point, I think all we need is a good nap. Though 11, 623 pipes _does_ sound alluring," she said, pushing forwards her suitcase into the dimly-lit hallway.

They located their room without difficulty, Clara inserting the key into the lock and opening the door. The place was barely big enough for a bed, a side table, and a scratched-up desk with some paper and a table lamp. The two travelers started at the single mattress in dubiety.

"I can sleep on the floor," he offered. She balked at him.

"Don't be ridiculous, you're the one driving us. We can share the bed," she decided, crossing the threshold and setting her hands on her hips. Peeling wallpaper. Ruddy carpet. The vague scent of cheese (the place was situated beside a pizzeria). It would have to do. They were only napping, anyway. "Unless you think I'm a rubbish sleeper, because I swear, I haven't kicked in my sleep since I was nine."

"No, no," The Doctor said, his face growing hot. "T-That's not a problem."

He tentatively entered the room once all of their luggage was piled into the corner, Clara kicking off her boots and collapsing down onto the bed without a moment's hesitation. "Do you ever miss home, Doctor?" she asked, starting at her socked feet as he made his way over to the thick curtains and opened them slightly. Their view was of the other adjacent building, what looked to be a two-story pharmacy. He let the curtains fall and eased himself down at the foot of the bed.

"Not really," he admit, untying his shoelaces. "Well, I've been living in a dorm for the past four years, so what do I know? I suppose it's up to me to find a new one." _A new home,_ he thought to himself, lying down beside Clara as she stared up at the ceiling, hands folded over her stomach.

"I hope you do, Doctor," she said after a while, crawling under the sheets and pulling the duvet up to her chin. He closed his eyes, finding sleep an easy companion as he began to drift off into delirium.

"Thank you." His voice hid behind a yawn as he added, "Goodnight, Mrs. Oswald-Smith."

Clara laughed quietly. He heard the sheets rustle next to him.

"It isn't nighttime."

"Still."

He didn't need to see her to know that she was smiling. It was the last thing he thought of before falling asleep.

Her voice barely caught him as she murmured,"Goodnight to you too, Dr. Smith."

* * *

Sleep ended almost as abruptly as it began.

Sometimes, she'd wake up with her face pressed against the pillow, limbs paralyzed in fear of crossing the invisible line that had divided the bed into two equal halves. Other times, her eyes would snap open, and she would be a mere few inches from him, having to adjust to the darkness as his heavy breathing aligned with the rise and fall of his chest under his t-shirt. In those instances she would immediately turn around, shutting her eyes tight as if she could somehow extinguish the warmth she felt in those moments.

This time, she awoke, and felt her bladder pulse with an immediate urge to piss. She swallowed the stale taste in her mouth as she carefully peeled the covers from herself and got out, The Doctor's still-sleeping figure curled up on his side of the bed as she padded over to the bathroom and located the light. There was an eerie feeling that coursed through her body as she entered the tiny cell and turned the faucet on; it was as if everything was partially numb, her movements slowed as if she were moving underwater. She convinced herself it was due to her lack of sleep as she splashed water into her face.

"I'm surprised you haven't seen a doctor about this," an unfamiliar voice clipped from beside her.

Clara yelped, backing away from the sink as beads of water ran down her neck and soaked the hem of her blouse. There was a woman standing in the doorway, a blonde woman, with concerned eyes and a set jaw and a hardy enough disposition that Clara couldn't even _begin_ to question what on Earth she was doing there.

"Well, then again," the stranger drawled, leaning against the door-frame and peering out into the open motel room. "I suppose you've already met one."

"Who the hell are you?" Clara asked, not even bothering to dry her face. The young woman across from her frowned, as if she had expected them to be on the same page by now.

"Don't you recognize me?" she said, running her fingers through a single lock of hair. "A blonde shopkeeper from the Powell Estate? Has a soft spot for reality television and spicy chips? _Bad Wolf—?_ " Her fingertips immediately pressed against her lips, though a gasp escaped from them anyhow. "Have you gotten to that part yet? The last thing I want to do is to spoil you."

Pieces of the impossible began to thread themselves together in Clara's head, and it was almost too absurd to handle as she settled herself down on the toilet seat and leaned her elbows against her knees. She hid her damp face in her hands and tried to keep herself from panicking.

"No way," she murmured to herself through jagged breaths. Because there was no _way_ Rose Tyler, a _fictional character_ , was standing in this rubbish motel bathroom with her right now. "I must be hallucinating."

"Nope! Just dreaming," Rose supplied helpfully, crossing the threshold and hitching herself up onto the counter. "But if it'll make you to go back to bed, then yes, you are hallucinating. I'm just a big, scary, unexplainable side-effect of your chronic refusal to sleep."

"But that doesn't make any _sense,_ " Clara insisted, lowering her hands to peer up at the woman, with her blue jacket and bell-bottoms and muddy running trainers. She was especially bothered by the latter, surprisingly more than anything else she had just experienced in the past minute or so. "You only _exist_ in a book. I _bought_ you in a San Francisco 7-Eleven!"

"No need to stir up painful memories," Rose mumbled, leaning back against the mirror. "I'll have you know that I was stuck on that shelf for three years before you picked me up. Easily one of the better days of my life," she mused, plucking a complimentary shampoo from the lot and inspecting it under the dim light. "You'd know about the rest of them if only you read a little faster."

"What are you _doing_ here?" Clara urged, still unable to meet her eye without feeling as though she'd gone insane. "Why have you got any business wandering about in my head?"

"Because your _dreams_ are the only place I can come and talk to you without following a script," Rose retorted mournfully, dropping the bottle into the sink and picking up another. "And Lord knows how rarely you have them—tell me, how many caffeinated beverages have you had in the past twenty-four hours?"

 _No,_ Clara thought to herself, trying to will herself into waking up like one might try to pass a kidney stone. She _would not_ be taking self-interventions from her own subconscious. She'd always wished fictional characters were real, but she didn't think they'd have the actual audacity to call her out like this.

"I dunno," she said, only after her attempts to break free of this horrifying dream had turned futile. "Eight, nine? I lost track."

"Exactly, because your brain's short-circuiting and you're ignoring it like it's nothing," Rose stated flatly, rolling the tube of conditioner between her fingertips. "Clara, you can't keep going on like this and expect to yield the same results as you do when you've slept. It's not healthy."

"Says you and literally everyone else," Clara shot back tiredly, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. "My therapist. My dad. Psychology majors who think they know all that. What makes you think you can help me?" It was unnaturally cruel of her to talk this way, even if it was in front of someone who technically didn't exist. But she was swimming in her own mind, where all of her thoughts and feelings were floating around, where she could pick up on any of them and it wouldn't have mattered.

"Because you know I'm not actually real, and that this must be a very strange encounter for you, so maybe you'll remember it and listen," Rose said, setting down the product and pushing off the counter to squat down in front of her. There was a smile on her face. "Plus, I'm objective. I don't really know much about you other than the fact that you don't sleep and your decisions are nearly parallel to mine."

Clara's lips pulled into a frown as she lifted her head from her hands. "In what way?"

Rose grinned, her shoulders shrugging as she said, "We've both agreed to travel with uncharacteristically strange people."

The young writer groaned, leaning back on the toilet as a breathy laugh escaped her. "The Doctor has _nothing_ to do with this."

"The Doctor has _everything_ to do with this!" she argued, grabbing onto Clara's wrists and pulling them away from her face. The time-traveler's brown eyes were fixed with determination, as if it were her sole purpose to stare at her until she understood. "You can reach out to him, Clara. He can help."

"Ugh, no," she droned, hands balling into fists as if she wanted to crush the mere idea into pieces. "I am _not_ asking him to write me a prescription—that's properly weird."

"Not as your doctor, silly." Rose's frown deepened. "As your _friend._ You've been traveling on your own for so long that you've forgotten how to confide in others." Her fingers tightened their grip, as if she could somehow influence her by cutting off the blood circulation to her fingers. "Like you said, you trusted him from the get-go. I'm more than positive you can trust him with this. He's a good person, Clara."

She didn't need Rose to tell her that The Doctor was a good person, because she knew that from the beginning. In fact, she didn't even need to be told that she could trust him with anything, because she knew that no matter how much of herself she opened up to him, it would be treated with the same kindness and understanding that had gotten her here in the first place. Clara was picky, not in the way a child was with their palate, but in the people she chose to surround herself with. And the amount of time it took to trust The Doctor didn't devalue the carefulness in which she made that decision.

"I...I don't know if I can. If I _want_ to," she admitted, trying to explain herself as best she could. "The Doctor is the first person I've grown accustomed to in a long while. He seems to _fit_ , even if he doesn't know everything about me. He's unafraid to question my fears and he laughs at my jokes, and I feel as if I tell him about _this_ —" She gestured to the space in between them, as if their conversation was a testament to her ever-growing plight. "—he won't be able to look past it. I just don't want him to see me with this problem on my back."

A part of her knew that he would never think of her that way, but after years of being seen through pitiful eyes, of receiving countless tidbits of advice that ultimately did nothing but agonize her, Clara wasn't about to take any chances. She had grown so close to him these past twelve hours. And she liked the way she was with him. There was no need to augment to that something bad, something that would turn her into a burden. It was the last thing she wished to be.

"Clara," Rose said, eyes filled with concern. "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

She merely shrugged, unsure of what else to say. "When you agreed to become a time-traveler, was it difficult for you to admit why?"

She didn't need a response to know the answer, because she had read it in the book. She had seen Rose struggling to admit to the man she was steadily growing more fond of that she had no plans beyond working in a retail shop, that her life was ordinary and couldn't hold a candle to the one he lived. She didn't want his perspective of her to be tainted, didn't want her vivacious spirit and curiosity to be devalued by her lack of real-life, goal-oriented ambition. When you met someone like him, you wanted to put your best foot forward. You wanted to hide all of your flaws and accentuate the good parts.

"Yes," Rose admitted, her voice low as she spoke. "But it made me realize that there was nothing to be afraid of. Because he never saw me any differently."

She let go of her wrists then, standing up only to perch herself on the lip of the bath tub as the sound of running water filled Clara's ears. The young writer's eyes darted to the faucet, but it wasn't on. The sound seemed to be seeping through the walls, becoming louder and louder with each passing second as she felt herself being slowly drawn out of her own body.

"You'd be surprised," Rose said to her before she wiped out completely. "Sometimes showing your weakness to somebody doesn't earn you distance, but rather a chance to bring you closer together."

And with that, the walls of Clara's dream drained like water spiraling down a faucet, her vision beginning to tunnel as she awoke with her face against the pillow, her hair askew as if she had been tossing in her sleep. The Doctor poked his head from the bathroom she had just escaped, a toothbrush in his mouth and his hair fluffed in all directions. He looked as if he'd just showered.

"Is the water too loud?" he asked behind a mouthful of toothpaste. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"You're fine," Clara said, sitting up and leaned against the headboard. Her clothes were unnaturally stiff as she rubbed her eyes and asked, "What time is it?"

"Nearly eight-thirty," he replied, the water only intensifying as he began to rinse. "Thought we could go out on the town for a bit. Indulge ourselves in the city-life before we pull another all-nighter."

He emerged from the bathroom only partially-clothed, his blue-collared shirt only halfway done as he rushed to the closet mirror to finish buttoning it. He wore not much else but a pair of argyle socks and boxer briefs. It was more than Clara had expected to see of him. He caught her staring in the mirror's reflection and was quick to shoot her a grin as she immediately blushed.

"And by that you mean?" She glared at him. Embarrassed as she might have been, it didn't reach her voice as The Doctor finished buttoning his collar and reached for the pants he'd draped over the back of the desk chair.

"Karaoke and drinks?" he suggested sheepishly, shoving his legs into each pant leg as Clara laid back down and groaned. So he _had_ spotted the karaoke bar just two blocks down their motel. "I think it only necessary that I redeem your first experience!" he added frenetically, circling around several times trying to locate his braces.

Her voice was barely audible as she spoke into her pillow. "I appreciate the thought, but Jesus could show up and sing gospel music and it still wouldn't compensate for that horrid night." If she thought hard enough, she could still smell the reek of wine. The fact she had brought up Jesus didn't help much, either.

The Doctor only laughed, squatting down beside her and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. He squeezed it reassuringly. "Then I won't even come near you with my horrible Jesus impression, and I promise not to call you Clarissa." Clara grimaced as she pulled the pillow from her face and smacked him with it accordingly. "You don't even have to sing anything! Just come with me. I promise you'll have a good time."

She eyed him warily, trying to locate the doubt in his voice, but she found none. He was fully confident that he could make her think differently of a place she had dreaded once before—he could've picked anywhere else to go tonight, but no. He just _had_ to challenge her, to push her out of her comfort zone. And she didn't know how to feel about it.

"You promise?" she asked him, her voice strangely child-like. The Doctor nodded, tracing an X over the front of his shirt.

"Cross my heart," he told her, giving her a reaffirming smile. "We have a checks and balances system in place, remember? If I start gyrating like a lunatic, you have every right to tell me to stop."

Despite herself, Clara laughed. Because the thought of him dancing was enough to make her want to get up and go.

"Yeah yeah, I get it, you're an American government buff," she pushed him gently aside, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Seriously, you could pass a citizenship test if you wanted to."

She pushed herself up from the bed and promised to be ready in fifteen minutes, dragging her suitcase into the bathroom and closing the door behind her. She stared at the tiny cell in apprehension and thought back to the conversation she'd had just minutes before, with the main protagonist from _'Withering Rose,'_ of all people. She pulled at her ragged locks of hair and chuckled quietly to herself, thinking that if she got more sleep now, she'd never get to experience that kind of dream ever again. Perhaps if she kept her poor habits up, other fictional characters might visit her. Like Jamie from _'Outlander.'_ Or Darcy from _'Pride and Prejudice.'_

She brushed her teeth and redid her makeup in the mirror, pulling her hair into a sleek ponytail as she then turned to her suitcase in search of something to wear. She definitely avoided all of her white shirts, and didn't want to look preppy at a bar, so she opted for a satin blue dress she hadn't worn in ages, with blue buttons fastening the top and a cream-colored clutch purse to match. Fastening on a pair of sparkly Mary Jane pumps, Clara looked at herself in the mirror, and wondered if she was overdressed. Despite this, she was pleased with her work, and collected her things before opening the bathroom door.

The Doctor had just finished securing the purple bow-tie around his neck when he latched onto her eyes in the mirror. Slightly dazed, he swiveled around to face her fully, as if the reflection didn't do her justice as he stared with his mouth slightly agape. Clara suppressed a smile as he tried to find his words.

"I, uh..." he stammered, adjusting the accessory at his collar. "Wow," was all that followed. _Say something else, you idiot._ "You look good. _Better_ than good. Blimey, you look beautiful." His cheeks flushed as he said this, wondering if he'd said the right thing or not as he anxiously awaited her reaction. The tension immediately left him as her face broke out into a wide smile, Clara's eyes fixed upon her shoes as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and blushed.

"Thank you," she told him, readjusting the strap of her purse. "You don't look too shabby yourself."

He gleamed at that, wanting so desperately to keep complimenting her just so that her smile could remain a constant on her face, but he wasn't about to embarrass himself further as he instead decided to start packing up, as their three-hour stay was indeed coming to a close. Clara followed his lead and began tidying up, redoing the bed and collecting her boots off the floor, and once they had finished, they stared at the small space in a quiet sort of reflection. Not much had happened in the past three hours, but it felt oddly sentimental to them, as if their departure from the room was another indicator that their trip was slowly ending before it even got the chance to fully begin.

In less than fifty hours, Clara would be in New York, entering Wayfarer Industries with her every hope pinned on the success of a future partnership with the renowned travel media company. And The Doctor would be off with his friends. They would cherish the time they spent together, and diverge into the two separate lives they'd always intended to live. Separate. Detached. Independent from one another.

She didn't quite know what to make of it just yet.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of her mind, Clara did a self-evaluation of herself, using the checks-and-balances method The Doctor had suggested they use. Was she thinking too far ahead of herself? Yes (but not really). Was she worrying about things that hadn't happened? ( _Yet_ , but yes again.) She thought back to what he had told her this morning in San Francisco. It felt like a lifetime ago.

 _"I would think it nice for you to live in the moment. We're gallivanting across_ America _here, Clara Oswald!"_

So she was. And so she would continue to, with an open and fully-present state of mind. And perhaps, once it was the right time, she'd take the advice of a fictional character. It certainly wouldn't be the first time literature had made an impression on her.

"Ready to go?" The Doctor asked, holding his arm out for her once their belongings were relocated into the hallway, where they would be rolled off to the next place they ended up. Clara nodded, wrapping her arm firmly around his as she closed the door and locked it behind them.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she smiled, and walked alongside him down the corridor.


	9. Roy Orbison

He'd intended for them to have a good time.

Instead, he sat with a broken video projector between his legs, the emerald green light of his sonic illuminating its complex interior as he tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with it. He hadn't meant to knock it off the cart while dancing—a pastime which he was particularly terrible at—and never before had his inept abilities inflicted _this_ much collateral damage.

"Here," Clara offered, plucking the device from between his teeth so he could see better. "Do you think you can fix it?"

The Doctor stared into the dark cavity of red and blue wires. "Well, it's either that, or we pay three hundred dollars, and while I may be considered affluent, I liked this option a wee bit more." He toggled with an interior switch and tried the power button again. Nothing. "Gives me a bit of a challenge."

"You should've seen the looks on those girls faces when you interrupted their Florence and the Machine tribute," she remarked, arching an eyebrow in suspicion. "Part of me is convinced you did it on purpose."

"Did not!"

"Please, _"_ she accused, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. "I spotted that look on your face when they stopped singing—you looked relieved! Even when the manager began barking at us from across the room!"

"Well, can you blame me?!" he blurted, hands spewing sporadic gestures into thin air. "Whoever thought that molesting hair was an attractive dance move is _severely_ misled!" He paused his investigation of the video projector to shudder. _Actually_ shudder. Clara rolled her eyes.

"It was your idea to go out for karaoke and drinks," she reminded him. He shot her a look.

"Yes, well I didn't think I'd be sober throughout the entire thing," he shot back, rapping the lens of the machine with his knuckle, as if that would do the trick. "Everything's a lot cooler when you're not confined to the duty of the designated driver."

Clara frowned, tracing his hand movements with the light. "Do drinks really make the experience better? Is it like wearing 3-D glasses or something?"

The Doctor groaned, pushing the broken projector across the floor and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Tired, he was so tired, and, if he were being completely honest, a little cross-eyed. Tonight was supposed to be fun, relaxing, but trouble seemed to follow him more faithfully than his own shadow. And not only that, but Clara had a front-row seat to witness it all. He didn't know whether to be mortified or appreciative of her surprisingly calm disposition.

They were crouched in the corner of the supply closet, remnants of a tool kit scattered about as The Doctor sat in defeat, Clara peering over his shoulder at the three hundred dollars' worth of rubbish that he couldn't seem to diagnose. Filled to the brim with frustration, the young man laid down on the floor and tried not to think about how filthy it was but rather his incessant urge to scream. If he started, Clara would probably be the only one to hear him. A thick bass was already pounding through the door like a living heartbeat.

"Let me have a go at it, eh?" Clara suggested, patting him affirmatively on the knee and scooching over to the abandoned piece of machinery. She heaved it onto her lap and studied it under the emerald green light. "Oswald for the win—Oswin!"

"You must hate me right now," The Doctor drawled, rubbing his hands over his face. The young writer furrowed her brow as she began inspecting the wires for any disconnections.

"Hate you? Why would I hate you?"

"Because I took the _karaoke_ out of the karaoke bar!" he exclaimed, squinting up at the grim fluorescent bulbs until his eyes stung. "Now it's just a bar! And not a very good one either, what kind of a bartender doesn't know how to make a decent lemonade? A nine year-old could do a better job than that lad could."

"You're just upset because you had to ask for a virgin-everything," she retorted, unscrewing the casing to the projector's main exhaust fan and coughing when a cloud of dust was unleashed into her face.

"Am not! I'm more upset that you requested an espresso shot at a bar," he accused. Clara glared at him.

"So what if I don't like to drink? It's unpleasant and disorienting and adjacent to morning-after headaches," she informed him. "Besides, if I had been under the influence, I wouldn't have had the acuity to fix this stupid thing." She banged her fist onto a piece of the projector so to relocate it to its former position. The Doctor peered up at her from his place on the floor.

"I'm sorry I got us into this mess," he apologized, feeling the chagrin in his chest begin to rise. "I know tonight was supposed to be fun."

Again, Clara paused, leaning back from her work to stare at him with a blank face. "Are you kidding me? This is the most fun I've had in _ages_."

The Doctor sighed, his hands retreating back to his face so she wouldn't see him turning red. "You don't need to lie to me and say that you're actually enjoying this."

"Oh no, I am _loving_ this," she promised him, smirking. "It's not every day you get to sabotage a band of university girls' rendition of _'Cosmic Love.'_ " Biting her lip in concentration, she carefully screwed the cover of the projector back on and snapped it into place. "There. That should do it."

Holding down the power button with her thumb, the two travelers watched as the projector's glass eye whirred back to life, a pale blue light spewing forth and bending around the shelves of toilet paper and packages of unopened salt. Clara laughed in triumph as she slumped against the wall, her smile radiant as her eyes fell upon the thwarted doctor lying next to her. She nudged his leg gently with the toe of her sparkly shoe.

"I don't hate you," she answered him finally, setting the projector down next to her. "The people waiting in line to sing karaoke, maybe. But not me."

"Perhaps hate is too harsh a word," The Doctor corrected, crossing his ankles and hooking a finger onto the strap of her glittery high-heel. "Pity, maybe?"

Clara laughed. "Never."

"I couldn't even fix a ruddy old video projector," he chuckled, sitting up against the wall next to her. She leaned her head on his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to close her eyes and drift off into a deep sleep. But the coffee she had inhaled minutes ago kept her awake, sharpening everything: her senses, her thoughts. The warmth of The Doctor as he leaned his head on hers. What would be of them in two days? Would they stay friends? Or would they drift apart, until they were eventually strangers again?

"Well, come and meet the girl who can," she murmured amusedly, feeling The Doctor's smile against her hair. And again, she felt it—a moment of brief tranquility, mixed in with the slight apprehension of being so close to someone she'd only just met. It certainly didn't feel that way. In fact, yesterday was already a lifetime ago in her eyes.

The comfortable silence died when someone began banging on the door. It was Klein, the bar manager, who had a slight beer-belly, frown lines, and a rusty red comb-over haircut. The Doctor scrambled to his feet immediately like a child looking for an escape route, his eyes even latching onto the vent situated just above their heads. Clara followed his gaze and blinked up at the barred-off exit.

"I'm not going to hoist you into that, so don't get any ideas," she said from her place on the floor as Klein allowed himself in without an ounce of consideration as to how crowded the closet would become. At least the two of them smelled decent. Clara tried to mask her cough as the musk of alcohol and cigarette smoke filled her lungs.

"Did you fix it?" Klein demanded impatiently, though his eyes were already locked on the fully operational video projector lying on the floor before him. The Doctor swallowed the lump rising in his throat. Relieved as he was, it didn't mitigate the manager's explicit anger towards them.

"Yes! See? It's as good as new. Actually, no," The Doctor frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not _no_ as in the projector's not fixed, _no_ as in I wasn't the one to fix it, Clara was." He jutted his thumb towards the young woman still sitting on the floor. "I was rather useless during the entire process, really, though I'm usually rather good under pressure—"

"Doctor?" Clara interjected.

"Hm?"

"Sh."

"Oh." He understood the cue and promptly shut his mouth, but not before adding, "Again, very sorry for upsetting the peace. Promise it won't happen again."

"Better not," the man huffed, Clara unsure of whether the look in his eyes was bewilderment due to The Doctor's unlimited access to words or a secret desire to have pocketed three hundred dollars from him instead. Something told her he wasn't actually expecting them to fix the thing. And if she were telling the truth, Clara hadn't either. This day was just full of surprises.

Quickly unplugging the projector from its socket and handing it over to the manager, the young woman accepted The Doctor's hand in helping her up. She dusted off her dress and teetered back out into the lively bar, where a live band was busy tuning their instruments. Klein made a hasty show of getting the karaoke back up and running again, ushering the next performer onto the tiny pedestal of a stage, a thirty year-old man who began weeping the lyrics to _'Time After Time.'_ Clara and The Doctor both collectively groaned as they leaned against the back wall of the bar, the drunken parade of businessmen and absent-minded college students swaying to the tune of the man's requiem.

"The terror continues," Clara narrated solemnly. He laughed.

"Seriously, who goes out to karaoke on a Monday night?"

She frowned, folding her arms across her chest. " _We_ do, Doctor."

"Yes, but we're exempt from the shame. We're on a honeymoon, remember?" he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Clara laughed, shoving him gently as she watched the man onstage grip the microphone in near-desperation.

"Definitely the weirdest honeymoon I've ever been on."

"The _only_ honeymoon you've ever been on," he corrected her. Realizing his mistake a moment later, he faltered with his words. "Not that I'm assuming that you've never been on one before, even though that's _precisely_ what I just did—"

"You stand correct," Clara corrected him amusedly, relief immediately flooding his features as she smiled cheekily back at him. "Only the one. Even if it's a hundred and ten percent fabricated."

"Hey, you gotta admit, I did pretty well back there," The Doctor replied. "The backyard ceremony, Canon in D, me being a mess, as usual."

"You basically described the wedding in every Hallmark movie ever made."

"Don't insult the Hallmark channel, Clara. Those films are golden," he said rather seriously, sending the two of them into a fit of laughter that wouldn't stop, even when they began receiving strange looks from the people around them. Because they weren't just cracking up over the Hallmark channel, but The Doctor's dance moves that had cost him nearly three hundred dollars in replacement fines, the sickly-sweet lies of two strangers trying to get a discount, and the probability of two completely different people coming together to complete one seemingly impossible task.

"Let me drive the TARDIS to our next stop," Clara said once their revelry had subsided, feeling the courage in her begin to rise. The Doctor tore his gaze from the stage to stare at her, his mouth slightly agape.

"Really?"

"Yeah!" she shrugged, as if convincing herself that it was no big deal. "The road is just a straight line anyways, what's the worst that could happen?"

"You do realize that question is typically preceded by potentially dangerous consequences, right?"

"True," she admitted, the corner of her mouth turning into a frown. "I just think you should give yourself the luxury of a drink or two, Doctor. I saw you eyeing the cocktail menu, though you tried to be discreet."

He still didn't look convinced. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," she reassured him, though the dread began to accumulate at the base of her throat. She swallowed it down and forced herself to continue. "Course, don't black out on me or anything. I am not dragging your body back to the car, nor do I need another recreation of _'Weekend at Bernie's.'_ "

"The Missionary did look good," he admitted, stroking his chin in careful deliberation. "According to The Guardian, Utah has the most restrictive liquor laws in the entire United States...what did you mean by _another?_ "

"It was my friend Nina, she broke a heel on the way down. I had to visit a chiropractor after that incident," she supplied ruefully. "And I knew about the liquor laws, surprisingly. It's Trivial Pursuit question. I memorize Trivial Pursuit questions so I can...win," she finished bleakly, scratching the back of her head. The Doctor didn't know why this amused him so much, and Clara caught the look he was giving her and glared.

"Go," she ordered him, shooing him away. "Go and claim your 1.5 fluid ounces of liquor and then meet me by the billiards table so I can beat you."

"Is that your strategy?" he asked, backing up towards the bar with a blithe smile on his face. "Convincing me to get tipsy just so you can win?"

"A player never reveals her strategies," she replied coyly. He laughed, and she suddenly found herself blushing beneath his accusatory stare. "I'm not trying to put you at a disadvantage, I swear!"

"I would've believed that if you hadn't told me that you memorize Trivial Pursuit questions," he called back, Clara shaking her head as soon as his back was to her. She couldn't wipe the smile off her face as she admired the way the light bounced off her shoes, the young woman unaware of her surroundings as she turned on her heel and ran smack into a wall of dress shirt buttons and men's cologne. Staggering backwards, she felt a pair of firm hands keep her from falling, a dazed look in her eyes as they tried to focus on the stranger. America was certainly full of them.

"Whoa," he said, the smile in his voice evident as he situated her upright. "Are you alright there?"

"Yeah, think I am..." Clara drawled, pulling back from his grip and massaging her temple. "Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Understandable," the young man said, his brown eyes casting an expression of sympathy onto her. She took in his closely cropped black hair and neatly pressed black blazer, and realized that his facial features were almost programmed to be attractive. He maintained that same easy smile on his face as he said, "Mind me asking, but you're not from here, are you?"

She mashed her lips together, suddenly aware of the throng of people overtaking every square inch of her peripheral vision.

"No, no I'm not," she replied, finally meeting his gaze. His GQ smile. "And I'm assuming you are?"

She swore she saw his teeth whiten by ten watts.

"Yes. Yes I am."

* * *

"One Missionary, sir," the bartender announced, presenting a brightly-colored concoction in a sweating glass. The Doctor thanked the man and tipped him generously, sipping at the drink as he meandered his way through the crowd in search of Clara. He skimmed the surface of everybody's heads, realizing the fault in his tactic, so he began looking for her shoes. He liked them quite a lot, actually, the way they sparkled in the light...

The Doctor stopped short. Because when he spotted the shoes, he failed to ignore the pair of loafers to their immediate left.

Clara was talking to someone.

And even though he told himself that they were just talking, he couldn't control the slight plunge his stomach took into an unending abyss of apprehension. _Again?_ he couldn't help but ask himself, wanting to smack his palm into his forehead. First with Jack Harkness, and now with this strange bloke with the dimples and the clean-cut quiff. The Doctor's hair wasn't like that at all; it sort of took its own path. Stuck up in places he didn't want it to. Not that it bothered him, it was merely an observation.

"Join the club, man," a voice said from beside him. The Doctor started, turning his head to face a student with a beer in his hand and a pitiful look on his face. He blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I see the way you look at her," he answered him, pointing the mouth of the bottle towards the scene playing out before him. Clean-cut man laughing at something Clara said. Clara smiling politely back at him. "That wistful longing. The inferiority complex." A grim expression passed over his face before he said, "It's best you just forget about it, though. She's way out of your league."

"Excuse me?" The Doctor said defensively, shooting daggers at the young boy. "Are you even allowed in here? Where are your parents?"

"Look, I'm just trying to do you a favor here in sparing yourself from any potential embarrassment, that's all," the boy replied gingerly. The Doctor was mortified.

"It just so happens that I'm her ride!" he exclaimed, taking a rather vigorous sip of his cocktail. It burned at the back of his throat and he nearly sputtered. "At least, that was until we agreed to swap roles, but that's not the point. I _know_ her, I'm her _friend!_ "

It didn't seem to support his case, because the boy only tsked, like a physician diagnosing him with some malicious disease. "Out of your league _and_ firmly situated in the friend zone. That's gotta hurt."

"Nothing hurts!" he shot back.

Rarely was he ever irritated with anyone; he typically sought to be understanding of others' backlash—perhaps they were having an off day, or didn't get that bicycle they wanted for Christmas. But when he looked at this child, with his pompous attitude and petty narratives, all he felt was indignation. _He_ was the doctor, for Pete's sake, he wasn't supposed to shrivel under the eyes of minors. That wasn't the way things were supposed to go.

"What? So you really think you have a chance?" the boy challenged, folding his arms across his chest. The Doctor scoffed.

"Yes," he said, though his confidence lacked luster. The boy frowned at him.

"Well, nothing's gonna happen if you just stand there. You do know that you have to actually approach her, right?"

The man only laughed, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Has no one taught you how to address your elders?"

"You're not old."

"You're right about that," The Doctor replied, pausing to take a sip of his drink. "You're also probably right about her being out of my league, and the saving me from potential embarrassment bit, but you know the part where your mistaken?" he asked. The boy raised his eyebrows. "Watch this."

The Doctor downed the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass into the boy's hands as he swiveled on his heel and walked away. The poor kid stared at his retreating figure incredulously.

"Where are you going?!" he hollered. "She's _that way!"_

"I know!"

He didn't know where the suddenly bravery came from—the drink that was now making his head fuzzy, or his incessant need to prove people wrong—but The Doctor felt the idea in his head grow more and more ridiculous as he stalked to the front of the room in an unforeseen determination. He had decided a long time ago not to let anyone influence his decisions, and that promise remained firm, even now. No one could defer him from what he was about to do—not the minor, or clean-cut man, or even The Doctor himself, which was an unexpected surprise. Usually he was his own adversary when it came to gestures like this.

Perhaps it was finally time to beat himself at his own game.

* * *

Clara couldn't even remember his name.

It had come up at least twice in their conversation, but she had difficulty latching onto it as he continued to indulge her on the success of his vegan food truck. When she had asked if they sold chimichangas, he laughed. She didn't know what was so funny about it, for it was a legitimate question.

"Have you ever tried being vegan, Clara?"

She noticed how he pronounced her name differently. It was all short vowels. "No. Tried being vegetarian for a while, though. It's difficult when you're indefinitely responsible for Christmas turkey."

"So you're a cook, then?"

"I prefer a writer with a dash of amateur baking," she corrected, thinking back to her soufflé triumph earlier that morning. It was like the lottery, nailing down that recipe. "My friend's vegan, so I can relate a little, but I'm persistent on the border that lies within our fridge."

"Fair enough," he grinned, swirling around the ice in his glass. "Say, you're looking particularly empty-handed. Why don't I buy you a drink? We can continue our conversation over a game of pool."

Clara crossed her arms across her chest, feeling her insides constrict. The Doctor should've been back by now, bantering with her, discussing where they were off to next. What was keeping her from saying yes? It wasn't like she was on a date or anything, and she'd be halfway across the continent by tomorrow. Any other person would have accepted the man's offer, would have unraveled at his immaculate hair and practiced smile. And yet here she was, trying to find the words that would inflict the least amount of damage.

"Look, you seem like a really nice guy...uh..." she trailed off, grimacing. She couldn't believe she had forgotten his name.

He knew what her answer was going to be right there and then, as his lips drew themselves into a thinly pressed line. His dimples still flanked that blithe, easy-going grin as he nodded and took a step back from her. Clara was at least glad he got the message.

"Ouch," he laughed, a little uneasily. "You know you don't stand a chance when she doesn't even remember your name."

"I'm sorry," she apologized truthfully. He shook his head.

"No, it's alright," he insisted, finishing off his drink. The look in his eyes told her he wanted another. "It's William, by the way."

"Ah, yes! William," she snapped her fingers, as if it had been on the tip of her tongue all along. "Regardless of my poor listening skills, I stand firm with what I said. I think you're a nice guy, and I'm positive you're going to make someone very happy one day. At least you're one person closer to finding out."

He nodded, though that tinge of defeat still lingered in the space between them.

"Is it too arrogant of me to ask why you said no?"

She laughed. "Trust me, William, it's got nothing to do with you. If anything—"

Her words were stopped short as a wave of ear-splitting feedback ricocheted off the walls, causing everyone's heads to turn towards the stage.

"HELLOO SALT LAAKE!" The Doctor hollered into the microphone, squinting as the light from the projector blinded him into oblivion. "Forgive me for interrupting your evening but I'd like to take a moment to introduce the _smashing_ band you've got performing here tonight! We've got Lucy on drums, Oren on bass, and Peter on lead guitar—did you know that Pete here's from Scotland? Love a good Scot. Anyhow..."

"What the hell is he doing up there?" Clara muttered to no one in particular, excusing herself from William's side and pushing forwards into the throng of people, where the heat became almost palpable. She wanted to get to the front of the crowd but was unsure of what she was going to do when she got there. It wasn't like she was going to yank him off-stage, and there wasn't a chance of her getting up there herself...

She froze as the band began to play, ascending guitar riffs mixed with the the steady beating of drums keeping her firmly rooted in place. She swore her heart stopped once she recognized the song.

And she didn't know what it was, the hoard of people bobbing their heads to the music, or the fact that The Doctor was singing Roy Orbison's _"Pretty Woman,"_ but Clara felt the blood rush from her face in a feeling she couldn't discern. Was it embarrassment? Shock? Or a strange hybrid of the two?

_"I don't believe you, you're not the truth. No one could look as good as you...mercy!"_

The crowd began to sing along, The Doctor's eyes meeting Clara's from the stage as he flashed her the widest grin she'd ever seen him wear. She shook her head in disbelief. He did everything: the air-guitar, the purr at the end of the verse that made everyone in the room go hysterical, and it was good. _He_ was good. Not like she would ever admit that to him.

She began to laugh when someone in the audience handed him their sunglasses, the tension in her limbs dissipating as she began to sway in rhythm to the song, her sparkly shoes glittering under the lights when she twirled. She wasn't the most graceful dancer—while The Doctor was all limbs and flailing, Clara was a culmination of shoulders and hips, but she didn't care what she looked like in the moment. She just danced.

It was the most fun she'd had in a long time.


	10. On The Other Side

A part of her had always been a little scared.

About the road trip. About taking risks that she never would have stood by if not for The Doctor's compelling encouragement. He made her feel capable of being brave, though she was always a little more apprehensive than she let on.

His tweed coat had long since been abandoned and was now hanging on the back of the driver's seat, the keys to the TARDIS already in the ignition when Clara returned from the toilets. _Two minutes_ , she had promised him, and was now stifling a small laugh as she found him snoring in the passenger seat. He hadn't even made it long enough to put on his seat belt. Shaking her head, the young woman climbed into the vehicle and reached over to fasten it for him, only to realize how close she was.

Either she was being watchful or just plain strange, Clara couldn't help but smile at how peaceful he looked, as if every preexisting trouble on his face had dissolved into a quiet stillness. Strands of dark brown hair had fallen into his eyes, and without thinking, she lifted to brush them back into place, her fingers barely grazing his forehead. Seven hundred miles ago she wouldn't have even considered such a gesture. Now...she didn't know what kind of distance she had crossed to get to here. All she knew was that The Doctor was one of the most interesting people she'd ever met, and she got the sense that he felt the same way about her.

"Thank you," she murmured, even though he couldn't hear. _Thank you for everything._

Fastening her own seat belt and readjusting the seat to fit her height, Clara took a deep breath. She could feel the rumble of the vehicle's engines purring beneath her feet, the sheer magnitude of the TARDIS's horsepower hers to wield for the next leg of the journey. She tried not to dwell on it for too long. New York was still a ways away from their reach, and time was limited.

 _"Everything's backwards, like looking into a mirror,"_ The Doctor informed her back in Nevada, his hand maneuvering the TARDIS with ease. _"It's as simple as writing with your other hand! Actually no, that's a rubbish comparison..."_

Everything came so naturally to him. Clara still didn't know what to make of it, or rather, how to develop that sense of ease herself. She had tread carefully almost her entire life, and often found it disquieting to see people like The Doctor, throwing themselves in front of danger while still managing to land on both feet. It made her question what the point of carefulness was. Whether it was necessary at all.

 _It's just a straight line,_ she told herself finally, brushing away her doubt without a second thought. Shifting the gear into reverse, she slowly eased her foot off the pedal and backed out of the parking space. _That's all it is. And all it ever will be._

It wasn't until she finally hit the road when she realized that things were only as easy as she decided they were.

* * *

"How is it?" The Doctor asked gently, once he found his voice. Clara tore her eyes off of the dark highway to meet his gaze, and though her face was still tight with apprehension, relief soon followed suit as she saw that he was coming to. "The driving, I mean. Easy enough?"

"Yes! Fine," she nodded, her hands on ten-and-two. "At least I think it's fine. How was the drink?"

"Good. Not much punch, I'll admit. A bit fruity." He rubbed his chin and stared out the window, where rolling plains flanked them on either sides. "How long have I been out?"

Clara touched her tongue to the roof of her mouth, concentrating as she did the calculations. "'Bout two hundred miles? We passed the Utah border a while ago, and now we're in someplace called..." She carefully pried her fingers from the wheel to check his phone, which had been plugged into the portable charger so she could use it for directions. "...Bondurant, Wyoming."

"Bondurant?"

"It's French for...something."

"Trivial Pursuit?"

"Nope. Just general knowledge and...etymology. I took a class in university, scraped by with a B minus." Her expression told him she wasn't pleased with it. He chuckled, repositioning himself in his seat so he could look at her profile. The high points on her face were illuminated with the electric light of the dashboard, soft red and blue hues bending around the bow of her lips, the curve of her nose. He quickly averted his gaze towards the road.

"What did you study?"

"English Literature, of course," Clara replied, a hint of pride in her tone. "My mum said I loved it so much that I could teach it."

"...then why don't you?" he asked, the question slipping from the part of his brain he often left unattended. The part where questions took shape and slipped by like droplets from a faucet. It didn't help that he was still incredibly sleepy. Clara tilted her head thoughtfully, as if it were too a curiosity of hers she hadn't yet explored.

"Because I'd have to settle," she replied after a while. "I'd have to stop running, writing about the places I see." _Looking for things I didn't know needed to be found,_ she wanted to say, but refrained for a reason she couldn't quite place. "Life would be normal again. And I wouldn't get to do things like this."

"Like what?"

"Like driving your arse around, that's what," she retorted, smiling. "Don't you want to know what happened to you?"

"Not particularly," he admitted, mirroring her smile. "I'd always thought I'd get asked that from a physician, or some type of security guard...what happened to me?"

"Well, after your dignified impression of The Caruso of Rock, the crowd loved you so much that you sang two more songs. You barely made it back to the car before you were out cold."

"Five more Missionaries?"

"Adrenaline, I'm guessing," Clara supplied. "Ordered take out, though it's probably soggy by now. Been holding up the TARDIS since you've been gone."

"So you just taught yourself how to drive on the opposite side of the road?"

Her lips drew themselves into a thin line. "Like you said, its as simple as being ambidextrous." He recognized the humorous edge to her voice, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I've managed well enough," was all she followed with. She didn't tell him about her near-collision with a fire hydrant, or how she circled the building twenty-seven times before she decided that 'getting the hang of it' was just a euphemism for 'getting over it.' But perhaps that was a story for another time.

The Doctor sat up in his seat, suddenly concerned. "Clara, why didn't you wake me up? Are you alright? I could have helped you!"

Clara mashed her lips together, though her eyes glinted. "Trust me when I say that you were out like a light. Not even Led Zeppelin could wake you up."

He slumped back in his seat, sniffing out the food in the back. It smelled fried, and most certainly unhealthy. All the more appealing. He may have studied twelve years to become a doctor, but it didn't mean he had to follow his own advice. They were sharing a cup of fries not a moment later, The Doctor extending the ketchup packet for her to dip as her eyes remained locked onto the road. It was the same concentration she used when reading her book, or writing an article.

"What's this?" he asked, toggling with the volume dial until the music was loud enough to be heard. " _'Dancing Queen'_ by ABBA? This isn't on my playlist."

"No," Clara agreed, eyes flicking to the aux cable connecting her phone to the TARDIS speaker system. "It's on mine."

His face immediately widened into a smile. "I didn't know you liked seventies' music."

She shook her head in denial. "I don't really."

" _You can dance...you can ji-ive!"_ The Doctor sang under his breath, Clara laughing as she nudged him gently with her elbow.

"My mum and I just really loved watching _'Mamma Mia!'"_ she explained. _"_ It was the perfect pick-me-up film. Helped me get over my first heartbreak."

"You should've sang it back in Utah, unleashed your inner Meryl Streep," he suggested, bobbing his head in tune to the beat.

"No thanks. I think Salt Lake City's had enough karaoke for one night." A sigh of incredulity escaped her lips. "I still can't believe you did that. At the perfect time, too—I was having the _strangest_ conversation with this guy, didn't know how to end it without sounding like a complete arse."

"Really?" he asked, his voice traveling an octave higher than usual. He hoped she wouldn't notice. "How so?"

"I dunno, I guess I just wasn't in the mood for small talk," she answered honestly. "His name was William, and he was a middle school math teacher with a vegan food truck."

"He sounds like well-rounded bloke," he said, trying his best to act casual. Clara merely shrugged.

"Would I have gone on a road trip with him? Probably not." Her face reddening, she added, "We just couldn't find common ground. Except for the fact that I once dated a math teacher, which is a trend I don't wish to continue."

"Was he the reason behind _'Mamma Mia?'_ "

"That's the one," she said behind a forced smile. "Six reruns, fourteen hours, and one hundred and twenty-six songs—thirty- _six_ of them performed pathetically by me. It was the sing-along version; I was in a very bad place at the time."

"Ouch," The Doctor grimaced. "I presume it didn't end well?"

"He was my first love," she admitted, surprised at how leveled her voice was. "And keeping that in mind, you can imagine how infatuated I was. I thought we were meant for each other. He liked Agatha Christie. _I_ liked Agatha Christie. _He_ liked running. I could pretend!"

He laughed, offering her the last fry. She shook her head. "What happened, then?"

Clara grew quiet. It wasn't a question she faced often. In fact, whenever anyone mentioned Danny Pink, her face grew hot with resentment. Seldom did she ever get the opportunity to clear her emotions from what truly drove them apart. It was almost as if everyone back home knew who he was, the man attached to the young writer's novice heart. The source of her anger and grief. Here, sitting next to The Doctor, was like breathing fresh air for the first in a long time.

"He had a negative outlook on life," she finally said, choosing her words carefully. "His trust was difficult to earn, and not in a good way. It was as if all he saw in people were the damages they could inflict onto others." She was surprised to find that the indignation in her voice was no longer there, that familiar ache in her chest now gone. "I thought I could change him. And it wasn't until he broke up with me that I realized that you can't love someone and try to change them. You love someone and you...accept them."

It was the first time she had admitted that aloud. And for once, she got through it without crying. Or shouting. In fact, Clara couldn't help but feel proud of herself, a mix of triumph and relief alleviating the tension in her chest.

"Plus, he didn't want children," she included nonchalantly. "It wouldn't have worked out."

The Doctor's smile was infectious. "So you want children?"

"Three. In an ideal world, triplets. But it's a lottery, genetics."

The two shared a small laugh. The Doctor considered his words before saying, "Well, my previous girlfriend didn't want kids either. I tried getting her to change her mind, but she refused. Said a domestic life was never quite her style."

Her soft smile paralleled his. "That's your goal, then? A family?"

"Are you kidding?" he asked, surprised to find that she hadn't yet learned this about him. "It's my ultimate goal! Yes, aside from the impromptu sojourns and getting into trouble occasionally, I am _set_ on the rest of my life being dedicated to bulky strollers and height marks on door-frames, and a _minivan_. God, Clara, I want to drive a minivan so badly, everyone thinks I'm mad."

"With how you're describing it, it seems she'll be missing out." Clara let out an amused chuckle, glancing over at him in this new scope of light. The Doctor, a man who jumped from continent to continent, unafraid of anything so it seemed, wanted to be a father when he grew up. It made sense in a matter of seconds—the sincerity in his voice, his kind nature. He was a doctor, after all. Caring was his first and foremost responsibility.

"Yeah," The Doctor shook his head, reaching into his past, rather nervous about what he'd retrieve. "I saw her once or twice after university—she had graduated in archaeology and disappeared to go wreck havoc on ancient burial grounds world-wide." He let out a small laugh. "She was always on the run, never in the same place twice. She admitted to having other partners while we were together."

Clara grew silent, her stare turning solemn. The thought of anyone treating a relationship like that made her stomach churn.

"I'm so sorry."

The Doctor shrugged, as if to indicate that he had moved on. "It's okay. That was her, that was how she chose to live her life. Like you said, you can't change the other person, you can only accept them. I chose not to, in this instance."

Clara nodded, and upon hearing the next song on her playlist, turned up the volume and asked, "Did she at least like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain?"

Her passenger, caught off-guard by her question, began to laugh. She couldn't help but laugh along with him, Rupert Holmes's voice singing to them as they navigated the pitch-black terrain of Wyoming State. Perhaps being on the other side wasn't so bad, after all.

* * *

"What if I don't get it?"

The Doctor looked up from the road map, Clara's beat-up touchscreen illuminating the paper terrain like a searchlight. He wore a pair of round spectacles and an incredulous look on his face. The young writer licked her lips and continued.

"The Wayfarer partnership, I mean. What if I don't get it?"

He turned off the flashlight and stared at her in dubiety. "Where's all this doubt coming from?"

"I dunno," she replied. Her voice was meek. "That part of me that knows I'm not an _actual_ writer."

His stare grew steely behind the rims of his spectacles. "That's a load of rubbish and you know it."

"No, I don't!" she exclaimed, the confidence in her credibility wavering. "I mean, I started my website when I was sixteen, with no formal knowledge, no beta editor, no accolades—what if Wayfarer just sees me as some sort of a joke?"

"What, so you _actually_ believe that Wayfarer, an internationally recognized media company, is going to invite you half-way across the world just to poke fun at you?"

It was a ridiculous, agonizing thought, but the more Clara focused on the details instead of the big picture, the more she doubted herself. _101 Places to See_ was a beloved website to its readers, but Wayfarer wasn't looking for its next place to go on holiday—it was looking for a partnership. A lucrative and reliable one. Why on earth should they be interested in someone who knew and had so little? The only other jobs on her résumé were a waitress position at a churrasacria, where every menu item was impaled with a barbecue stick, and a role as a theater camp director. She called herself a traveler and a businesswoman, but felt as if she lacked the formal credentials. That nuance, she believed, would be the deciding factor in tomorrow's interview. _Tomorrow._

_Dear god._

"Okay," The Doctor prompted, tossing his spectacles and road map into the back of the TARDIS. "Pull over."

Clara balked. "What?"

"I said pull over!" he repeated firmly. "Clearly, the driver's seat has granted you an unlimited access to your thoughts—most unfortunately the bad ones—and I will _not_ tolerate you and your petty self-deprecation." Clara's expression hardened as she kept her hands on ten-and-two. But her passenger was relentless. "What you need is some fresh air, a few minutes to stretch. A nice stroll."

"It's four in the morning!"

"It's a morning stroll! Now pull over, please!" The Doctor beckoned, ushering her to the side of the road. Clara eventually obliged, releasing a heavy sigh as she turned the steering wheel and felt the gravel crunch beneath the tires of the TARDIS. They were in the middle-of-nowhere Wyoming with a deadline fast approaching, and he wanted to stop and smell the roses. The fact that it was pitch black outside was no consolation.

"I don't know why you're doing this," she said, parking the vehicle and unbuckling her seat-belt.

"Because I'm your friend, Clara Oswald, and quite possibly your only friend on this entire continent. And as your friend, it is my duty to tell you when you're being absolutely absurd." And with that, the young man unbuckled his own seat-belt, and got out of the car. She had little choice but to follow him.

It was brighter than she had expected, the moon casting a ghastly white glow over the arid grasslands and low-level mountains. The Doctor took all of this in with a smile and leaned against the hood of the TARDIS, whose headlights still carved a pathway through the night. Clara kept her distance a few feet away, shifting uncomfortably on her feet as she observed the still, barren landscape.

"We're going to be eaten alive out here. By coyotes."

The Doctor scoffed. "Nonsense! Everyone knows that coyotes have adapted to city life due to countryside urbanization. It's a pity, really. And besides, what we really have to look out for are the wolves."

"Wolves?!"

"Don't worry, Clara," he soothed her. "Despite your well-intended wishes, I shall assume responsibility of our protection."

"What, with your laser pointer?" she asked dryly. His heroic expression fell. "You're not getting me to call it a sonic."

He clicked his tongue, shooting her a wounded look before patting the spot next to him. Clara hesitated, thinking about their deadline, when she realized that she'd been driving for hours on end. Any further and she might have been petrified enough to turn themselves around. Self-doubt manifested itself deep within her own thoughts, and it was times like these that alleviated that pressure. She was grateful that The Doctor had stopped her when he did. Drawing herself to his side and perching on the dusty hood of the car, she followed his gaze, and was met with a mesmerizing sight.

She had never seen so clear a night sky.

"...the stars, there are so many of them," she said after minutes of silence, the only noise the chirping of crickets and the hum of the TARDIS's engine. The Doctor merely hummed in agreement, crossing his arms and leaning towards the sky as if to better inspect them.

"Now that's a sight you won't get anywhere else but here."

Clara had seen paintings of open spaces like these, had read about them in books, but she never quite understood what it was like to have her breath taken away until this moment. It saddened her to some degree that the stars she saw here were but a rarity to places like New York and London, where the overwhelming lights of iron-rod buildings caused the night sky to fade into the background. How could a view like _this_ be sacrificed for something so pallor in comparison?

"Have you read any Emily Dickinson?" The Doctor whispered, so not to tear her attention away from the spectacle. Clara let out an amused breath.

"Have I ever," she murmured back. "I wrote a semester paper on her once, went six hundred words over the limit. My professor was furious with me."

 _"Her bonnet is the firmament, the universe her shoe, the stars the trinkets at her belt, her dimities of blue,"_ he recited under his breath, the young woman's gaze flicking to his in surprise.

"Look at you, being all poetic," she drawled, nudging him in the elbow. He grinned sheepishly.

"It's the only thing I recall from Literary Interpretation. I slept in there most days," he admitted with a frown. "Even so, I still don't really understand what she was trying to say—something about the moon. Which is silly, if you think about it, because the moon is just a tiny fragment of sediment compared to the entirety of our solar system, and with the science of entropy and all—"

"Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"Your point?"

"My point? Ah, yes!" he exclaimed, scratching the back of his head. "My point is, I didn't know Emily personally, but something tells me that she focused little on what other people thought of her writing but rather how passionate she was about it. And evidently that passion did her some good, if English Literature students are exceeding word counts just to praise her work." The corners of Clara's lips tugged upwards into a small smile, before he leaned in close and said, "You _are_ a writer. And please, don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Perhaps it was the sincerity in his green eyes, or the shards of light that dangled above them, but a sense of bravery overcame Clara as she closed the space between them and pressed her lips to his. Because he made her realize that she more than capable of being brave.

In fact, he made her realize she had been brave all along.


	11. A Leap of Faith

He didn't know what to do with his hands.

In fact, he couldn't waver much of a reaction at all. Not because the thought of kissing Clara Oswald hadn't crossed his mind before, but because she was _all_ he could think about from that moment forward. The sweet scent of her hair, the warmth of her lips as they gently pressed against his in an act of sheer impulse. The feeling that she might mean more to him than he ever thought possible. It was a moment that began as abruptly as it ended, for when she pulled away, he couldn't help but wish that she hadn't.

Her deep brown eyes, quiet and curious, peered into his. His lack of an actual response led them to immediately fill with apprehension. "I didn't—"

He cut her off this time, meeting her lips in an answer that rendered her both surprised and relieved. _Good_ , she thought to herself, reaching up to rake her hands through his hair. Because she didn't know how she was going to finish that sentence. And quite frankly, they were both at a loss for words.

While their first kiss had been like asking a question, their second was devoid of any sort of indecision as The Doctor reached down to grasp her hips without a moment's hesitation. Clara arched her back beneath his touch, moaning slightly as he turned them so that he could press her body against the metal of the hood, the bite of cold steel searing through her satin dress. Wrapping her legs around his waist so she could pull him closer, she knew that this was the absolute last thing she should be doing right now. But every thought that previously occupied her mind had now been replaced by the warmth of his hands as they gently caressed her thighs, the feeling of his tongue against hers.

She parted only when her attention had been caught by a faint churring noise coming from over his shoulder. Breathless, she tried to regain her sight as it focused in and out on the blurry figure standing just meters away from where they were.

"...Doctor?" she asked, trying her best not to be distracted as his lips trailed kisses along her jaw and down her neck. He stopped upon hearing the hesitation in her voice. Pointing behind him, Clara watched as he pivoted slowly and met her line of vision. She didn't know whether to be bewildered or amused by the pair of glassy black eyes staring back at them. "Is that a...beaver?"

The animal crouching on the perimeter of the headlights blinked at them curiously. Steadying his hands on her waist, The Doctor turned to shoot her a glare.

"A _beaver—?_ " he protested, gesturing towards the creature in disbelief. He was still trying to regain his breath. "That's a...that's a _badger!_ They're the cleanliest nocturnal omnivores known to man, and they have an excellent sense of smell." He paused flash a quick smile at the small mammal, as if it could hear every word they were saying. "If I'm not mistaken, they're Wisconsin's state animal. We're lucky to even see one in person."

"Right." Her eyes still trained on the badger, Clara leaned in and lowered her voice. "And are they known for attacking people?"

He mashed his lips together thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, I _did_ read a rather gruesome article in the Daily Mail once—"

They both flinched as the badger curled back its lip and hissed, revealing a set of canines that were elfin but incredibly sharp. The Doctor swallowed, trying to locate his words without further provoking the creature.

"—and _maybe_ it's best we don't find out."

Carefully helping Clara down from the hood of the vehicle, The Doctor squeezed her hand twice before letting go. They tip-toed to their doors on opposing sides of the TARDIS, exchanging uneasy glances beneath the badger's passive stare. Once they were safely inside, he flashed the headlights twice before watching the animal scurry off into the grass, never to be seen again. He let out a faint breath, leaning back against his seat.

Clara turned to give him a sidelong glance. It wasn't long before they started laughing, the absurdity of their situation slowly catching up to them. She had _kissed_ him. And it was everything she had expected it to be, and then some. Sans the omnivore, she didn't know how far they might have gone, snogging restlessly on the side of the road. It was certainly a first for her, and as she raised her fingertips to trace the path his lips had taken on her skin, she had a feeling it wouldn't be her last.

"You don't know how long I've been wanting to do that," The Doctor murmured after several minutes of silence. She shot him a cheeky grin in reply.

"My guess is one day, tops." Pushing back the stray hairs that had fallen from her ponytail, the young writer buckled her seat-belt, and urged her passenger to do the same. These past few minutes were certainly enough to get her mind off of things. In fact, she felt more awake than ever as she shifted the gear into drive and said, "Come on. We have a country to cross."

* * *

Clara bit into her soft pretzel, the taste of batter and salt lingering on her lips as she tried to focus on her book. The Westroads Mall in Omaha, Nebraska was anything but quiet, but the young traveler had managed to secure a bench just outside of Macy's, afternoon shoppers meandering the brightly-lit commercial corridors, ogling at the storefront windows. Clara brushed the crumbs from her fingertips and turned the page.

 _"I don't matter much down there,"_ _Rose murmured in dismay as they sat side-by-side on the edge of the time machine, the doors propped wide-open, their legs dangling into a pool of nothingness above Earth's solar system. Hardly anything existed in the spaces between them and the planets below. There was no gravity, no air. She wondered how anyone could cope knowing that they were completely alone.  
_

_"Sure you do," the man beside her replied, sounding incredulous. "Your mum seems to worry about you a whole lot, which she ought to, since she's your mum. And you must have friends back home that miss you. I can't go a full day without you, imagine what it must be like for them!"_

_Rose laughed, her dimples appearing on either side of her cheeks. "They're much too busy birthing kids or establishing careers to spare a thought for me. If anything, they're just happy I'm out traveling_ _. I had nothing going for me there."_

_"Well, just because you had nothing going for you there doesn't mean you won't anywhere else," he replied. "Some people become lawyers or prime ministers, others...defend the universe in a daft blue box."_

_They were both laughing this time. The police telephone box, with its ability to displace itself throughout time and space, had become her new sense of normalcy. Not to mention it was bigger on the inside. Often times Rose considered whether the knowledge she had gained these past few months had made her more intellectual or mad. Perhaps a little bit of both._

A child dropped their ice cream cone onto the tile and began crying. Clara watched distractedly as the mother picked him up by the armpits, rubbing soothing circles on his back until his sobs subsided into a few weepy tears. It wasn't often that she felt homesick, but as the young traveler watched the two from afar, she couldn't help but wish that her own mother were still alive to guide her in the right direction. To reassure her that _this,_ that New York, was where she needed to go. Traveling alone had taught her a lot about herself, but it also deprived her of what it felt like to matter to someone as deeply as a child did to their mother, or as the characters of her novel did to each other.

Her mind wandered towards The Doctor and the innumerable amount of questions he presented. Was it possible to feel this intimately towards a person only having known them for thirty-six hours? She had some difficulty discerning the parts of her that were infatuated with him from those that felt something else, something more meaningful and unfamiliar. Was a relationship with him even practical at this point?

And where _was_ he, anyway?

Clara checked her phone. _1:32 p.m._ The Doctor was supposed to meet her back here twelve minutes ago. After nearly fourteen hours of driving in a dress, she was in dire need of fresh clothes, so they had split up to use the facilities and grab a bite to eat. Twenty minutes had given her more than enough time to change into a pair of jeans, find an Auntie Anne's, _and_ do a bit of shopping—because while punctuality was never her strong suit, checklists were.

 _He's probably out buying a hover-board or something,_ she thought to herself. She had seen a family of four take turns riding around on one earlier. While her interest had piqued at the contraption, she couldn't see the long-term appeal, only that The Doctor would love it and immediately want one for himself. The thought made her laugh as she envisioned him trying to balance on the contraption.

If _he_ was off doing other things, Clara thought, then she had every right to do the same. Finishing her pretzel and setting her book aside, she looked around for another shop to peruse. While she had planned several possible outfits for tomorrow's interview, it wouldn't hurt to add another. Something floral, perhaps. There was Macy's, and a Banana Republic. Or maybe a new pair of heels—

Her eyes latched onto the hair salon just across the square.

Biting her lip in thought, the young woman unlocked her phone. The Doctor had helped her install a messaging app than ran on wifi—after all her time spent online, she still didn't know these types of things existed.

 _Slight change of plans,_ she wrote to him. _I'm going to the hair salon. Meet me there?_

He replied not a minute later.

_Gotcha! Don't get anything too crazy._

And then:

_Actually, ignore that. I'd love to see you with purple fringe._

Smiling foolishly to herself, Clara turned off her phone and grabbed her backpack from the bench. They had a few hours to spare after pulling another all-nighter, and after all, those nine hundred miles hadn't driven themselves. She was more than willing to pamper herself as she approached the counter of the salon and requested an appointment. It had been years since she had done anything remotely interesting to her hair, the long locks of brown grown halfway down her back by now.

Some of her hair was already wrapped in tin foil by the time The Doctor found her, an impish grin on his face. It took one look at him for Clara to realize that a part of his quiff was now unnaturally shorter than the rest, as if it had been severed off by a pair of child's scissors. She gaped.

"Oh my stars," she said, pushing the tin foil out of her eyes. "What happened to you?"

"What, you mean this?" The Doctor asked, pointing to his singed quiff as if it wasn't apparent at all. "My hair got caught in a flat iron at JCPenney! This saleswoman was trying to demonstrate something to me and I wanted to try it out for myself." He rocked back and forth on his heels. "Management kindly asked me to leave afterwards."

"Can't imagine why," she mumbled to herself. As if this day could get any crazier.

"Anyways, I thought to myself, _'Clara's at a hair salon right now! Might as well join her.'_ I thought I could get a trim while we're at it. Unless you think it suits me?" He turned his head to the side so she could examine his profile. "Eh? I think it brings out my eyes."

"Makes my eyes hurt."

The Doctor slumped his shoulders in disappointment.

"May I have a trim? My hair has seemed to develop a fault," he informed Clara's hairdresser when she returned with a new bowl of hair dye. The middle-aged woman peered at him over her glasses and jabbed her brush towards a folding chair in the corner.

"You can sit over there and wait your turn," she told him, eyeing his singed hair with a suspicious look. He retired immediately to the designated spot, giving Clara a big thumbs-up as he crossed his ankles and sat patiently. The hairdresser returned to teasing Clara's hair, brushing the product in before adding another layer of tin foil. It was beginning to feel like a dome.

"Is he with you?" she asked between layers. Clara nodded. The woman sighed heavily through her nose. "Dare I ask what happened?"

"I think you best wait until it's his turn," she told her. "It sounds funnier when it comes from him."

Clara was nearly finished by the time The Doctor took the seat adjacent from hers. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she beheld her new appearance as she ran her fingers through her short hair, the dark brown now feathering out into a myriad of honeys and blondes. The last and only other time she had dyed her hair was in sixth form—she had gone from a normal brunette to a _slightly_ lighter one with a kit she had bought from Tesco, and barely anyone noticed until she mentioned it. Now, staring back at herself, she liked what she saw. It was different and charming and entirely _her._

The Doctor seemed to like it as well, because she caught him staring in the mirror with a kiddish grin on his face.

Frowning, she confessed, "You make me nervous sometimes."

"You make me nervous lots of times, so at least we're even," he replied, thanking the hairdresser as she tied a nylon cape around his neck. He noticed the way she carried herself more confidently—her shoulders back, her posture straightened ever so slightly. "I dunno—it's like you've become _more_ of yourself." He paused to laugh. "Does that even make sense?"

"Yeah, it does," she answered quietly, cupping her reddening face with her hands.

The hairdresser leveled each strand of The Doctor's hair between her fingertips before cutting, the remnants drifting to the ground with each passing snip. She had maintained his hair's overall shape but refined the parts that were severely overgrown, evening out the aftermath of his mishap without leaving him completely bald. Clara certainly approved of it, because when he stood from his chair twenty minutes later, she reached up and pushed it out of his eyes with a smile.

"Now you'll be ready for your remaining residency interviews," she said as they walked out of the salon. He released a shaky breath in return.

"You know that was my first time at a salon in fifteen years?"

"What? No."

"I'm serious! My mum always used to cut it for me, or Amy, when she visits. There's not many people I trust coming near me with a pair of scissors." He rubbed the back of his neck and shivered, as if the feeling of being in that chair still made him uneasy. "And besides, I couldn't show weakness when I was in there, else you would have laughed at me."

"I would not have laughed at you," she promised him, though she bit back an amused smile. "So is that it, then? The one thing that makes you quake is the idea of your hair being separated from your head?"

"Well, when you put it like that it sounds silly," he mumbled. "Hair loss is a _tragic_ pattern in my family. Getting it cut is like...throwing a boomerang. You don't know if it's going to come back, but you hope it does!"

"I'm pretty sure boomerangs are made to come back."

"You don't know that! Have you ever thrown a boomerang?"

"You're right. I haven't," Clara frowned, lingering behind a few steps to inspect the back of his head. "And come to think of it, it _is_ starting to look a bit patchy in places..."

The Doctor spun around so quickly she ran straight into him.

"You're kidding," he said, gripping her shoulders in desperation. "You're kidding, aren't you? I'm only twenty-six, Clara. This can't be happening to me at twenty-six; I'm still young!" She shot him a strange look as he drew a hand to cover his mouth. "Oh god...I _knew_ I should have taken up those posh meditation classes when I was in medical school. Did you know that stress can lead to premature hair loss—?"

"Please calm down," she told him, reaching for her phone in her back pocket as it vibrated. She might have been joking, but it still didn't mitigate her concern for him. "You really should've been more careful then before singing your hair off like that. It's a fire hazard."

The Doctor continued to pace as Clara unlocked her cell phone and read the e-mail that had been sent to her, her eyes scanning each line with an excruciating slowness. She must have looked disturbed, because The Doctor stopped pacing and asked, "Are you alright?"

He looked pointedly at the thumbnail she had stuck between her teeth. She didn't even notice she was doing it until she tasted blood. Making a fist, she replied, "Yes, everything's fine. I just...can I borrow your cell phone? I need to make a call."

It was in her hands not a second later.

"I'll start the car, okay?" he asked, Clara nodding as he cupped her cheek and smiled. She had been so preoccupied with gaining distance that she almost forgot that moments like these were now allowed between them, moments in which she could just let her guard down and submit herself to The Doctor's consolation. Leaning in to his touch, she smiled back at him, her eyes still trained on his retreating figure as he left her to her own devices. Their phones felt like dead weight in her hands.

"Hello, this is Wayfarer Industries, Martha speaking. How may I help you today?"

"Hi, yes, my name is Clara Oswald. I have an interview scheduled for Wednesday at six o'clock p.m.—I just wanted to confirm that everything was still good to go?" It was now her turn to pace as she walked back and forth the length of the vending machines, a fussy infant in a stroller wailing as he and his mother passed by. The young writer pressed the phone harder to her ear, her raw thumbnail back between her teeth.

"Let me check the calendar for you ma'am," Martha reassured her, the distant sound of typing echoing through the line. "Yes, your appointment with Mrs. Tasha Lem still stands for tomorrow at six—we tried contacting you on your cell phone but received no answer. We just wanted to make sure you were still coming."

"Yes! I am, and sorry about that. I flew in from London about a week ago, and I still haven't invested in an international data plan. I should probably get on that."

Despite the young writer's ramblings, Martha laughed softly. "That's quite alright, ma'am. How are you liking the city so far? Have you gone sight-seeing yet?"

It took a while for Clara to realize that it was New York the receptionist was referring to. A panicked expression crossed her face, for she wasn't particularly interested in explaining why she was in Omaha, Nebraska instead of the place where she was supposed to be. She pictured herself in the most ideal of circumstances: lounging in her hotel room, scanning through potential interview questions on her laptop. Ordering a New York-style pizza pie. Nina's words rang in her ear. _Fake it 'till you make it, honey._

"Yes, I have! I can certainly see the appeal," she said from about a thousand miles away. She found it rather easy to lie when the other person couldn't see her face. "Bit noisy though. Is it always like this?" _Of course it is, you idiot. Cities are perpetually loud._

"I'm afraid so," the receptionist said, a hint of amusement in her tone. "You should be used to it though, being from London and all."

"Right! Yes, of course," Clara replied, suppressing a sigh as she shut her eyes tight and willed this entire debacle to be over already. Not for her and The Doctor's sake, but for that of her career. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"See you tomorrow, Miss Oswald. Have a nice day," Martha said before hanging up.

Clara exhaled in exasperation, pressing the edge of The Doctor's phone into the space between her eyes. It didn't sit well with her, lying to the people she was seeking a sponsorship from. But she needed to put her best foot forward.

Even if it wasn't the most candid one.

* * *

"Are you sure you're turning your back on me?" she hollered over her shoulder. The sound of birds and a bubbling stream a few meters ahead were the last things she wanted to hear right now. Where had civilization gone? The buildings, the gas stations? A simple porta-potty would have sufficed. But as Clara stood on the side of the road with the white sunshine warming her skin, there was nothing but trees and grass for hundreds and hundreds of miles. She hadn't been in the middle of nowhere before. This was a first.

"Yes, I'm sure! My eyes are closed and everything!" The Doctor replied from the other side of the road, his voice echoing beneath the verdant canopy of beech and American elk. He had killed the engine and was now leaning on the hood of the TARDIS; they hadn't passed another vehicle in the past hour. "You know, you really shouldn't have drank that iced coffee before we left."

"Oh, I know!" she called back, still unable to move an inch. "I regret it! My _bladder_ regrets it!" She paused to chew on her thumbnail, which had been reduced to a nail-bed in the past fifteen minutes. That's how deeply she loathed the idea of weeing without the luxury of restroom stalls. Or scented soap. "Where are we, anyway?"

"Oh, I dunno," he mused, craning his neck to get a good look at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. "Illinois? Or Iowa, maybe. I always get the 'I's' mixed up."

A mosquito landed on the sleeve of her yellow blouse. She smacked it away and felt a shiver run the course of her spine. "I can't—I can't do it. I don't care if I get a UTI, or my bladder explodes—I am _not_ peeing in a bed of grass!"

Swiveling on her heel, she maintained her stubborn disposition, despite The Doctor's pointed look towards her squirming figure from across the highway. She may have sounded cowardly, but when she agreed to go on this road trip, she'd anticipated being in control of where she went to relieve herself. She _didn't_ anticipate being formally acquainted with the great outdoors.

"Do you want me to plug my ears?" The Doctor offered helpfully. "Because I can!"

"No, no—" she shook her head, shooing away another mosquito. "It's not just the idea of _you_ hearing me that's bothersome, it's the idea of _everything_ hearing me! Insects, birds, the TARDIS—"

"The _TARDIS?_ "

"And maybe I'm going a bit mad!" she snapped, pulling at her roots as she bounced uncomfortably on the balls of her feet. "Maybe it's the chemicals from the hair dye, or the venti vanilla coffee I inhaled— _why_ did I have to buy a _venti?_ "

He didn't have an answer to that question. "You know, going for a wee in the wild isn't so bad, if you think about it," he said instead, trying his best to put her at ease. "Urine's main component is nitrogen, which is an essential plant nutrient. So in a way, it's like you're giving back to the environment!"

His words of encouragement didn't seem to help. In fact, Clara's state-of-mind only seemed to worsen as she crouched down and closed her eyes tightly, as if doubling over would somehow help her hold it in. What was the record for the longest duration of time gone without peeing? Because if she couldn't muster the pluck to attend to her basic needs, she may as well beat it. The red behind her eyelids vanished as The Doctor's shadow shielded her from the sun.

"Okay, come on, let me help you." He helped her stand and steadied her by the shoulders. Clara made a face.

"I get that you're a doctor and all, but I really don't need—"

"No, no, not like that," he laughed. "You can go a little ways further into the forest, do what you need to do, and I'll...take a walk. Whistle a tune. I won't be able to hear a thing, I promise."

Clara sighed, leaning her head on his chest in exhaustion. "Why are you being so nice? People aren't structured to be this nice."

The Doctor shrugged, resting a hand on the back of her head. "Better get used to it then, because you're stuck with me."

She knew he wouldn't be far, but as he distanced himself from her, her stomach twisted into knots. They were amassed in a sea of green, where the only other life forms were hidden in the leafy concealment of the trees. In the day and a half she had known him, it wasn't often she left his immediate side to venture completely alone. Westroads had been different; she had been surrounded by people and shops and man-made walls. Out here, the only trace of mankind was the road that cleaved the forest in half, snaking in both directions for as far as the eye could see. The young writer released a shaky breath.

 _Quit overreacting,_ she told herself sternly, making an effort to turn the other way and begin walking. Swatting away branches to make a path for herself, she felt the crisp grass crunch beneath her boots, tufts of dandelion flowers grazing her ankles as she meandered away from the road and further into the woodlands. Being engulfed by so many unfamiliar things felt an awful lot like getting lost, and it reminded Clara of a time when she was six. It was bank holiday Monday at Blackpool Beach, and she had been swallowed by a throng of at least ten billion people, or at least that's what it felt like. Strange, towering figures loomed above her, much like the trees did now. The only recognizable sensation had been the sting of summer sunshine on her face. She never remembered being so scared. And then her mum found her.

Yanked from the crowd like a fish out of water, she remembered the surge of joy that came from seeing her mother's face again, the culmination of relief and security so overwhelming it had urged her to tears. They had fish and chips, and then they drove home, Ellie Oswald tucking her daughter in and making a promise that Clara would carry for years after her passing.

_"It doesn't matter where you are, in the jungle or the desert or on the moon. However lost you may feel, you'll never really be lost. Not really. Because I will always be here, and I will always come and find you. Every single time."  
_

Clara felt a pang in the place where her heart sat. Even now, eight years after her mother died, there were instances where she sat still, waiting to be found by the one person whose promise uplifted her child-like hope. Often times, that hope was her main source of strength. Perhaps it was the fact that she missed her mother now more than ever, or that she was so far from home, but as Clara thought about her upcoming Wayfarer Interview and the decisions she took to arrive here, she tried to believe that she would be guided to the right place.

With that in mind, she drew herself to a halt in a patch of forest that appeared a little more secluded than most (she didn't know how this was possible; it was just a gut feeling) and relieved herself as quickly as possible, unable to keep herself from shuddering out of sheer discomfort. Guided by the distant rush of running water, she continued to navigate through the body of trees until she eventually reached a clearing, where a lake reflected the blinding sunlight like a mirror.

"What song were you whistling?" she called out to The Doctor, who was sitting near the edge of the water with his elbows propped up against his knees. He craned his neck to look back at her and smiled as she approached. Plopping down beside him on the grass, she watched as a leaf tumbled down to rest atop the surface of the lake, ripples of water fanning out from its light impact.

She strained to hear the tune that escaped his lips amid the noisy birds that warbled above-head. "Is it _'Mr. Blue Sky'_ by Electric Light Orchestra?"

"Correctamundo!" he exclaimed, immediately making a face. "Oh, that's a strange word. I'm never saying that again."

He plucked a dandelion from the ground and rewarded it to his fellow traveler, who grinned as she accepted it and began picking at its petals. Teardrops of vibrant yellow rolled off her fingertips with oncoming gusts of wind.

"I don't think I've ever gone this long feeling so disconnected from everything," she admitted once the flower was but a bare stem in her hands. "Whenever I travel for work, it's usually someplace busy, like a city, or a tourist attraction. I've never experienced...this." She gestured to the tall trees that surrounded them. Laughing to herself, she said,"I guess it's because I always thought I'd feel lost."

The Doctor stretched out his legs. He found it amusing how much longer they were compared to hers. Nudging her shoulder, he asked, "Well, do you feel lost now?"

She shook her head, surprised to find that she was strangely at ease with herself, and all that was around her. Interviews aside, she was willing to enjoy this moment for the time being.

"No. In fact, I'm feeling more spontaneous than anything right now." She chuckled and inspected a lock of her hair. "Chopped off five inches. Went a bit blonde. Peed in a forest." They were both laughing now.

"Well, don't get too comfortable, because we're not in New York yet," he warned her, picking himself up off the ground and kicking his shoes off. Staring at them in dubiety, Clara watched as he backed himself up from the edge of the water, that glint of excitement in his eye brightening with each step. The young writer pulled her lips into a frown.

"Doctor, what are you doing—?"

 _"GERONIMO!"_ he bellowed into the open air of the clearing, his ganging limbs flailing as he ran and took a gigantic leap. Clara's eyes went wide as he catapulted into the lake and sent sprays of water flying in all directions. Flecks of water now dotting her shirt and jeans, she stood from her place on the ground and watched as his contagious smile bobbed up from the surface of the water. She shook her head in disbelief.

"You're fully clothed!"

"Are you joining me?" he asked in return, pushing back the wet hair that was plastered to his forehead. He then proceeded to mimic Lenny Kravitz's guitar solo in _'Are You Gonna Go My Way,'_ an act that had her both amused and stupefied as she crossed her arms and seriously considered jumping in after him. She _was_ feeling a bit spontaneous, after all.

Prying her boots off and dropping them into the grass, Clara felt her heart pick up speed as she took a few steps from the edge of the lake to get a running start. She couldn't believe she was doing this. She couldn't believe she was doing this in the middle of nowhere. But most of all, she couldn't believe how secure she felt. She may have had no clue as to where they were, but she felt anything but lost.

So with a big grin on her face, Clara sprinted towards the water, and took a leap of faith.


	12. Bonnie and Clyde

If there was anything Clara identified with in regards to American pop culture, it was her crush on James Dean.

It began when she was thirteen. She sat beside her mum on the couch while she popped in her VHS of _'Rebel Without A Cause,'_ heart softening at the notorious nature of Jim Stark, a performance of Dean's that was so profound it made her lightheaded once the credits rolled onscreen. She was sure she had watched the film at least three more times that weekend. It didn't matter that he had died in a traffic collision over half a century ago, or that most of his costars had suffered a similarly disturbing fate (the drowning of Natalie Wood, for starters); she dreamt of starring alongside him in a feature Hollywood film.

"He was a cultural icon of teenage disillusionment—in the _fifties_ ," Nina observed dryly as she beheld the photos of him Clara had tacked up on her wall, back when the young writer had worn her outdated infatuation like a patch on her sleeve. "I'm pretty sure my gran had a crush on him. And she died ten years ago."

"So what if I'm a bit late to the party?" Clara bit back, hunched over her keyboard as she tried to unfurl sections of her term paper without being rudely interrupted. "James isn't a legend for nothing. Legends are meant to have fans that exceed _far_ past the span of their lifetimes."

"The fact that you're on a first-name basis with him is a testament to how delusional you are," her flatmate drawled from her own bed, pretending to answer a call as she held her cell phone up to her ear.

"It's my gran calling me from the grave," she informed Clara, extending the phone out to her. "She wants her posters back."

The young writer swatted her friend's arm away and ignored her from that moment forward. It wasn't the first time she had been teased because she had fancied someone who was popularized alongside color television. In fact, it took every ounce of self-control not to react each time her father played The Eagle's _'James Dean'_ in the car on the way to school. The lyrics still haunted her till this day.

_"You were too fast to live, too young to die."_

Her mother would simply smile at her over her mug of tea, glad her daughter had taken an interest in retro films. On multiple occasions, she would even contribute to the craze, driving Clara to Blockbuster so they could rent his other works and watch it over hot chocolate and salted popcorn. She always predicted that her daughter would find herself drawn to the adventurous type.

And in a way, Clara found that to be true.

She sat in the passenger seat of the TARDIS with the windows rolled down, damp hair flying away from her face as they drove down the highway with the air conditioner turned all the way up. The roaring wind made it difficult to maintain conversation, so she tried to make herself useful, whether by reading her novel, or mapping out the route to their next city. If everything went according to plan, they should arrive in New York City around lunch, with plenty of time to spare before her interview. Her feelings towards the event were similar to that of a student's towards their graduation—it didn't feel real enough to actually be happening. The fact that they were progressing further eastward on the map was enough to make her head spin.

She distracted herself from these impending doubts by debating whether or not to write a series of articles based on the road trip. Names would be changed, of course, specific locations omitted for privacy's sake. But she wanted to remember these past two days without having to rely on memory alone. She wanted to show her readers that Oswin was capable of being spontaneous _alongside_ being responsible. Her blog always had an underlying tone of safety. Perhaps it was time she took it in a new direction.

It wasn't until she dozed off, her notepad in her lap, when her thoughts took another interesting turn.

"Well _this_ is new," a familiar female voice purred from the back of the TARDIS, Rose peeking over Clara's shoulder when she opened her eyes. "A thousand miles ago you were like a cat afraid to take a bath! Now look at you—you're sopping wet."

The noise that escaped her was a mix between a yelp and a shriek. Clara swiveled in her seat, her eyes growing wide as she beheld the time traveler for a second time. She must have been dreaming again, for the air had thickened considerably, while The Doctor just sat there, completely unbeknownst to the extra passenger that had materialized out of thin air. Waving a hand in front of his face, the young writer wasn't surprised to find that he was utterly unresponsive, as if she were trapped in some alternate universe.

"You can say that again," Rose snorted from behind her. Clara turned and shot her a glare.

"Quit rummaging through my thoughts!"

"I _am_ your thoughts," the character reminded her, feigning a wounded look. "The practical ones, at least. Insecurities are stored somewhere in the back, I try not to let them see the light of day." She wrinkled her nose as her gaze flitted over the array of suitcases toppled around her. "Have you ever considered a capsule wardrobe? I hear they're very trendy nowadays."

"What are you here for this time?" Clara asked, feeling slightly exasperated. Was it possible to maintain a headache in your dreams? She thought sleep was a way to escape pain.

"Getting right to it, then. Okay," Rose conceded, draping an arm over her red suitcase. "You're less than twenty-four hours to New York. Have you thought about what you're going to tell The Doctor yet?"

"I wasn't aware I had to tell him anything."

"Oh, don't play daft with me," the time traveler scoffed. "You can't just snog him and leave it at that—look at what's on the table now! Aren't you curious to see what he thinks?"

"I have a few ideas as to what he's thinking about, Rose, and I'm pretty sure a relationship isn't one of them," Clara assured her, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "He has the rest of his career to think about! Residency can't be an easy decision, I'm sure. This trip is more like a...speed bump, than a romantic getaway."

She turned towards the man in the driver's seat, surprised to find how vividly her memory had captured him. From his gravitational hair to the strong jawline and protruding chin, it was if this wraith-like image was really her friend, and not some recreation her mind had conjured of him. His face was expressionless, eyes trained on the illusive road. She was secretly glad she could observe him from the safety of her own dreams. Licking her lips, she continued.

"So what if he—he pushes me out of my comfort zone? Or sees me as a legitimate writer? This is a temporary arrangement, and I would completely understand if he'd like to keep it that way."

She'd had momentary flings before—one of them even sent her a Christmas card once. She just couldn't see how two people from completely different spheres of life could stay in touch over long periods of time, especially when both upheld such busy schedules. When you traveled as much as Clara did, you learned to compartmentalize. To leave things in their proper place. _What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas_ and whatnot.

"I don't buy it," Rose said, wrinkling her brow. "I mean, who just _invites_ a complete stranger to travel along with them?"

"I can think of a few people," Clara told her bluntly, thinking pointedly to the time traveler and the entire story-line she belonged to. She slumped in her seat. "The Doctor, he's...he's bigger than life. He's brilliant, and funny, and mad. I don't know what I would've done had he not offered to help me in San Francisco. And while these past two days have been incredible, I have to remind myself that two days is _all_ I have. Can you really know someone in such a short amount of time?"

"Have you ever _liked_ anyone as much in such a short amount of time?"

The young writer grew quiet, unable to argue against her.

"I think the fact that you've only just met him scares you, but it should count for something, too," Rose said, looking at her earnestly through the rear-view mirror. "He said so himself. You shouldn't have to miss out on anything just because you're afraid to try something new."

Clara suppressed a small groan, hiding her face in her hands. She hated not knowing what was going to happen when they reached New York. She hated knowing that Rose was right.

"I just don't want to set myself up for that kind of separation. I don't want him to _mean_ something to me only to have it taken away."

Clara had first-hand experience with that already, and made it a point to never go through that kind of loss again. The kind that took pieces of you with it. It was why she became so reserved after her mother passed away; she didn't want to give people the power to hurt her. Often times, it felt like the only thing she had under control about herself.

"Oh Clara," Rose said under her breath, resting a hand on her shoulder and rubbing it comfortingly. Offering her a small smile, she said, "I think he means something to you already, whether you like it or not."

The young writer let out an amused breath, for if there was anything she couldn't do, it was lie to herself. Lifting her head from her hands, she asked, "Next time, can I get your alien boyfriend instead? He's much less straightforward than you are."

"And what, have him lecture you on quantum physics? I'm doing you a favor, trust me," she joked, the two travelers sharing a small laugh. Rose reached over and tucked a strand of Clara's damp hair away from her face. "New York will be lucky to have you."

"I do hope so. Although I'm sure New _New_ York is a _far_ more interesting city." Grinning, she recalled the vivid depictions of the world that only existed between the pages of her book. The world that Rose came from. "You know, that scene where you both fell down the hospital elevator shaft? Absolutely brilliant."

"Easy for you to say, you're not the one that had to fall from ten stories high!" Rose balked, shuddering from the memory. "I think I got tinnitus on the way down. It was _terrible_ —"

A car honked somewhere in the distance. Clara glanced out the window, but could see no other vehicles surrounding them. The Doctor still sat to her left, impassive as ever. As if the young writer having a discussion with the protagonist of a fictional world was a completely normal thing. But then again, when had her life ever been conventional? The nonexistent car honked three more times.

"I'll keep your request in mind, though I can't make any promises," the time traveler drawled, sitting back from her place in the TARDIS and winking at Clara through the rear-view mirror. It wasn't long before she would become nothing but distant memory to her, as most dreams typically did. "Catch you later, Soufflé Girl."

And with that, she was gone.

Waking up from such a lively dream was like drawing your head from a body of water. It left you breathing unevenly, with your limbs suddenly unused to the wide range of movement. Everything became much clearer. At least, in Clara's experience it did. Her eyes snapped open, and pieces of reality pooled all around her, most notably the relentless honking she now pinned on the red pickup truck behind them. Her voice was groggy as she spoke.

"What's he going on about?"

The Doctor, who looked particularly fed up by it all, gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He really hoped all the commotion wouldn't wake her, as she needed her sleep.

"I don't know, but he's clearly an imbecile who can't read the speed limit! I swear, if he honks _one_ more time—" The truck blared twice in return, for a grand total of six. The Doctor threw his hands up in the air, clearly having been pushed beyond his boundaries. "Blimey, I'm sorry, hold on."

He rolled down the window and stuck his head out. Clara was severely unprepared for what followed.

"IT'S A SCHOOL ZONE, MATE! I'M GOING AS _FAST_ AS I CAN!" he hollered, her eyes growing comically wide as he continued to hang out the window like a dog. She wondered whether or not he was going to lecture the poor man on the importance of traffic control. "AND WOULD YOU _KINDLY_ STOP MAKING SUCH A RUCKUS? MY FRIEND HERE IS TRYING TO SLEEP!"

Slumping far into her seat, Clara tried not to notice as the driver she spotted in her side mirror gave them a particularly obscene gesture. In a way, it was sweet of The Doctor to ask on her behalf, even if everyone within a five-mile radius could hear them. She tried not to dwell on it too much as they continued to travel down the one-way street at a tortoise-like pace, ramshackle houses of pink and yellow on their left, a dilapidated swing-set belonging to the school yard on their right. Having only seen America at face-value, with its bustling cities and rolling plains, the young writer was unaccustomed to its smaller, more intimate towns.

"Oh stars," she said to herself, realization dawning on her as her face reddened. The Doctor had retracted his head back into the car. "Do I talk in my sleep?"

"You said something about elevator shafts...and aliens," he offered helpfully, dialing down the air conditioner. "Weird dream?"

"Something like that."

He had pulled into town because they were running low on fuel, which Clara insisted she pay for this time when they pulled into a gas station minutes later. Pressing her card into his hand before exiting the TARDIS, she reached her hands up to the afternoon sky and stretched, feeling the tension in her shoulders and legs alleviate into the summer heat. The Doctor fueled the vehicle while she tidied up, tossing cups of diluted coffee-water into the waste and wiping down the windshield. The words tumbled out of her before she could stop them.

"I'm considering writing about our road trip," she said, eyeing the abandoned notepad she had left on her seat. "For the blog, I mean."

He peered at her over the top of the car. "I think that's a great idea! Will I be in it?"

"Well, I certainly can't take all the credit. I'd change your name of course, for privacy's sake."

"Like a pseudonym?" he asked, nearly dropping the gas pump from excitement. "I've never had a pseudonym before! What would you change it to?"

"I dunno. Is there a word for total screaming genius that sounds modest and a tiny bit sexy?"

It was clear her words had struck him hard, because he smiled blithely at her and asked, "You think I'm sexy?"

"Don't push it," she warned. It was bad enough knowing they were going to be apart in less than a day, she didn't need him looking at her like that, too. Like there was no one else in the world he'd rather hear those words from. Circling around the car, she was caught by surprise when he placed his hands on her hips and pulled her towards him. She cocked an eyebrow and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"We could have a theme," he suggested, realizing just how much he liked being close to her. The Doctor enjoyed getting to know her alongside this country he always visited but never explored. He was glad he was finally doing it, and with her of all people. "You could be Bonnie, I'd be Clyde. We could rob a bank together, just to make it more interesting."

"Didn't they murder like, several people?" He winced.

"You're right. That's not very nice, is it? Okay, backtracking here: Simon and Garfunkel. Lennon and McCartney? Or! Or—I know! Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!"

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? I don't see how that's any better!" Clara protested as they burst into a fit of laughter. The kind of laughter that equivocated to warm sun, or a huge sigh of relief. They couldn't get a word out to each other until they settled down. And when they finally did, she shook her head at his infectious smile, and said, "I think 'The Doctor' will do just fine."

Reaching up on her tiptoes, Clara brushed her nose against his, their breath mingling before she eventually closed the space between them in a kiss. And despite the pressure on her waist, or the feeling of his soft hair between her fingertips, the one thought that emerged among those that were otherwise of him was, _Don't fall in love._ She did that trick quite a lot, twice today even. She needed to remind herself that Wednesday would end whatever this was between them, and begin whatever she was headed towards in New York. This was a temporary arrangement.

"I don't think Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid ever did _that_ ," she told him afterwards.

The laughter that escaped him was almost enough to contradict everything she believed to be true. And despite the potential goodbye that awaited them just five hundred miles away, she didn't want these memories of him to be tainted by the possibility of it ending. They had been too good for that.

Holding her hand out, she chuckled as he took it and squeezed it twice. _No,_ she thought to herself as she returned to her rightful place in the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. _Nothing could ever ruin this._

And then the TARDIS wouldn't start.

* * *

Ilene Towers was a simple woman. She attended church every Sunday with her kids, bought the daily paper for her husband to snooze on at the breakfast table, and repaired vehicles at the local shop every other day of the week. There was little else to do in Sherrodsville, Ohio but to stick to a routine and anticipate nothing more than what it entailed. Because with a population of less than three hundred, you hadn't any other choice.

So when two strangers with foreign accents trudged up the road and begged for their flashy automobile to be towed, she considered it an exciting day.

"Engine failure," she concluded, emerging from the car's cavity of steel-wire veins and mechanic organs. "You two are lucky you broke down when you did. There's nothing in either direction of this place for miles."

The girl, who wore a breezy cotton dress and a deeply troubled expression, appeared faint. "I-Is there anything you can do?"

"Failure seems like a harsh word," the one next to her said. He was clearly the more optimistic of the two, for his face was pulled into an unconcerned smile, the kind she'd only seen children wear. "Are you sure it isn't just a momentary setback? A tiny scratch?"

"If you call an overheated engine a 'tiny scratch,' then by all means," Ilene replied. Perhaps the more appropriate term to describe him was 'in denial.' "When was the last time you flushed the engine coolant?"

"The engine coolant—?" he laughed lightly, exerting a great deal of effort to show that he knew exactly what she was talking about. The car mechanic didn't look impressed. His shoulders fell. "It's a universally neglected practice! Like choosing grains, or…flossing every day."

"We're from London," the girl explained, a fine sheen of sweat appearing on her brow. "The TARDIS is a rental car we borrowed back in San Francisco; we weren't aware we had to check for anything."

"San Francisco?" Ilene's dark eyebrows shot up. "Why the hell are you two driving all the way out here, then?"

The travelers exchanged glances, about a million words contained in each of their troubled expressions. Something told her that there was more than just one explanation as to how they ended up in this tiny gathering of a town.

"It's kind of a long story," the boy said with a wince. "All we're hoping for to make it to New York by tomorrow; it's very important. Is there anything you can do to help us out?"

"That's a rather large request," she admitted, resting a hand on the hood of the vehicle. It was a beauty, the TARDIS. She'd never seen one up close before. An insanely high mileage, all-season tire set, and apt horsepower were just a few of its admirable qualities, but nothing was more enticing than its rich shade of blue. The car was but a jewel in the midst of the dusty garage. It was a shame it was broken in the first place.

"The logical option is to have the engine rebuilt," she started, readjusting her bandana so to further inspect the hub. "But that in itself could take weeks, two at the least. And you sure can't rely on Sherrodsville alone to provide you the parts. We'd have to get them shipped in."

"We don't have that kind of time," he insisted. She ducked her head out from under the hood and wondered if he understood her inability to perform miracles. She dusted her hands on her jumpsuit, which was already covered in suit and grime from the day's work, and sighed.

"Then I don't know what else to tell you."

The girl's face had gone pallor, and she began gnawing her thumbnail with a startling ferocity. What occasion was so significant as to warrant such dread? It seemed to be eating at the young woman from the inside out. Not to mention the fact that they both looked restless and fidgety from travel. Ilene couldn't blame them; two-thousand miles of continuous countryside would drive anyone insane.

"Is there a place nearby where I can buy water?" she asked, running a hand over her face. She looked in dire need of something stronger, Ilene thought to herself. A nice cold Heineken and some fresh air. Or maybe a ventilator.

"There's a restaurant just across the street."

"Perfect, thanks."

Murmuring something to her boyfriend before leaving, the young woman continued chewing on her thumbnail like it was a piece of gum. At this rate, she wouldn't have a finger by the time she reached the crossroad. The young man's eyes didn't leave her until she was out the door.

"I understand that an engine rebuild is out of the question," he began, licking his lips as he approached. "But there has to be some other way. Money isn't an issue, or luxury, for that matter. I just… I promised Clara we'd get to New York City on time, and if we don't…if _she_ doesn't…"

The Doctor had been so sure of himself this entire time that it left him completely unprepared for the doubt he now felt. Why _hadn't_ he flushed the engine coolant? Why hadn't he known about it until now? He could have glanced at a manual, surely. In his right mind, he knew he needn't be so hard on himself, but they were so close, and had traveled so far, to have reached a dead end.

"This girl must mean a lot to you, then?" Ilene asked, sensing his distress. He let out what she could only assume was a laugh.

"She does."

The car mechanic nodded, her arms folded across her chest. The expression she had on told him that she was developing either a genius escape plan or a possibly regrettable one. He would take anything at this point.

"I have an idea, then. Follow me."


	13. Skid Row

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am issuing a warning for this chapter, as it does contain language pertaining to anxiety/panic attacks. Please read at your own discretion!

King Tut's Mediterranean Restaurant was an anomaly against the American country shops and coffee joints of Sherrodsville, Ohio. The sign plastered above its front door depicted the nefarious pharaoh's tomb beside a plate of cooked lamb, the words _'Foreign cuisine without the travel!'_ scrawled out beneath it in gold lettering. Clara pushed open the door; it jingled on her way in.

Other than her, the place was empty, framed photographs of hieroglyphics and historical Egypt staring at her from the brightly painted orange walls. Cushioned chairs with patterned fabrics were tucked into each table, similar materials hung up on the ceiling, creating a patchwork of color and light. A glass case of pastries caught her attention from beside the counter.

"They're called _baklava_ ," the man behind it told her, having emerged from the back room with a smile. He pulled the beaded curtain closed and was now preparing his order pad and pen. "They're made of this very thin unleavened dough called _filo,_ which we mix in with nuts before sweetening with syrup. Very good. Would you like to try some?"

"Oh, no thanks," Clara replied, trying her best to return his smile with her own. As appealing as it was, she wasn't sure she could stomach anything right now, lest of all pure sugar. "Just two water bottles for me, please."

"Of course," he said, reaching towards the refrigerator. "Are you visiting Sherrodsville? It isn't often we get tourists."

"Passing through, more like," she nodded, watching as he bagged her purchases and rung up her total. "My friend and I, we broke down about a mile from here. Trying to get back on the road again before it's too late."

She spared a glance over her shoulder, not quite knowing what she wanted to see. A touring bus, maybe. The repair shop that stood across the street from her was now bathed in gold from the late afternoon sun, The Doctor somewhere within its walls, trying to get them out of here. She felt guilty for leaving him, but the smell of gasoline mixed with her rising panic soon became too much to handle. Not to mention she knew nothing about cars. Water seemed like her safest contribution.

"So _you're_ the owners of the nice car," the man mused, accepting her card when she handed it to him. "I saw it from the window and thought I must've been dreaming. No one within miles of Sherrodsville owns anything as nice as that beauty."

"I guess it does kind of stick out, huh?" she asked amusedly. _Sort of like a...big chin._

"With a car like that, you'll be the talk of the town for days," he laughed. Her receipt inched out of the cash register. "I wouldn't be surprised if you got a mention in the daily paper."

_The Doctor would like to see that_ , Clara thought to herself as she received her water and, to her surprise, a plate of baklava served with pistachio nuts. She inspected her receipt in scrutiny.

"Oh no, I didn't—"

"Don't worry. It's on the house," he promised, nudging the plate towards her. "For all your troubles. I wish you and your friend well."

Despite all the chaos swarming around her, the young writer found herself smiling as she accepted his kind gesture. Was this man simply generous, or had the distress on her face been that transparent? Perhaps it was both, she presumed, thanking the man before he retreated to the back to solve a crossword puzzle. She seated herself at a table by the window and nibbled on one of her free pastries in thought.

As much as she wanted to deny it, a small part of her had always known this would be a long shot. The moment that ground attendant broke the news to her of her cancelled flight, she knew her chances of partnering with Wayfarer Industries were zero to none. She was already lacking the legitimacy of most professionals, having no prior experience in business other than the minor transactions with her blog. What made her think that everything was going to fall into place?

_You're going to lose this opportunity,_ a wicked voice inside her head sneered. _And afterwards, you'll lose him, too._

Her breathing suddenly became much shorter than usual, the dull pain behind her eyes sharpening to the point in which the edges of her vision began blurring in and out. Traces of sweat appeared on her brow. Was she just tired, or was this something more sinister, more severe? The tips of her fingers grew numb until it felt as if she couldn't move them at all, and a similar sensation had spread to her lower limbs. She was going to blackout here, in this small restaurant in this small town with no one there to help her until she had disappeared into darkness—

The door jingled, and The Doctor entered. He stopped when he saw her.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He suddenly seemed very far away. She shook her head.

"N-No," Clara got out, trying to latch onto her words but failing in the process. "I can't...can't _breathe_ —"

He was at her side in an instant, one hand on her back, another trying to hold her hand, which had gone frozen from shock. "Clara, I need you to listen to me, okay? You need to breathe. I know it seems impossible right now, but you can do it _."_

She tried inhaling through her nose. It felt like it was doing nothing for her.

"What's happening to me?"

"You're not receiving enough blood-flow," he informed her, squeezing her fingertips in hopes that she would squeeze back. "Is your vision obstructed in any way? Can you still see me?"

"Kind of," she told him, though his face appeared muddled behind a series of shapes and colors. A humorless laugh escaped her throat. "God, this feels terrible."

"I know, Clara. I know," he replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Calm down, focus on your breathing. Update me whenever you feel anything different, alright? You're going to be okay, I promise."

Regardless of the upheaval that roared in her veins, she believed him, and tried to follow his instructions. She inhaled and exhaled for several minutes, notifying him of her symptoms as they came and went. When the blood finally returned to her fingertips, her grip on The Doctor's hand went from weak to viciously tight in fear of losing control again. Never had she felt so powerless against her own body before. It was as if all of her deafening thoughts had taken physical form, flooding through her in search of something to break.

Once the worst of it was over, once her vision had cleared and her breathing was more or less back to normal, Clara laid her head down on the table and groaned. The Doctor took the seat across from her, still holding her hand. He tried, unsuccessfully, to screw the cap off of a water bottle with the other.

"Was it a panic attack?" she asked after a while, her face buried into the crook of her arm.

"Depends on what caused it," he mused, for it was a possibility. "Have you been drinking enough water, getting enough sleep?"

He nudged her elbow with the plastic bottle. She lifted her head and wrinkled her nose in distaste—if she couldn't stomach anything before, then she sure as hell wasn't going to now. The Doctor gave her a stern look until she agreed to take it. It didn't occur to her until now that he'd adopted another tone when talking to her, a professional one that only belonged to that of a concerned physician. He'd studied a good third of his life to heal people. Stubbornly, Clara swiped the bottle from him and took a single swig.

"I think I'm hydrated. Rubbish with sleep schedules, but that's always been a problem for me. Do you think it'll happen again?"

"Hopefully not, but you should drink up just to be sure," he told her, frowning. "What do you mean by rubbish?"

She paused, lips poised on the mouth of the bottle. She remembered how much she had fussed over telling him this.

"What I mean is..." she began, lowering the bottle with one hand and pulling the other out of his grasp. Her fingertips immediately retreated to her mother's ring. "There are nights where I only get a few hours of sleep...and there are some where I can't sleep at all." It soon became difficult to meet his eye. "It started when my mother passed away, so it's nothing new, or surprising, for that matter."

Meanwhile, The Doctor leaned forward in his seat, the consternation in his eyes becoming more and more evident by the second. He knew that she had every right to remain private about a situation like this, especially in the short amount of time he had known her, but the mere idea of her suffering in any capacity was enough to make his stomach twist. She had been coping with this for _eight_ _years?_

"Have you...reached out to anyone about this?"

Clara shifted uncomfortably in her seat, as if she had been avoiding that exact question up until now. _A professional or a friend?_ she thought, wanting to joke about how he could very well serve as both. She swallowed the comment down instead.

"I've been meaning to," she admitted. "You know when you look at a part of yourself that you know could be improved, but you just sort of...bottle it up? As if by ignoring it, you're convincing yourself it's not a problem? That's how I've treated this for the past several years of my life, and to treat it any differently is a little scary. It's a problem that has grown severely out of proportion, and I don't want to face it."

He knew what she meant, and could even pinpoint certain aspects of his life he'd treated with a similar denial. His reckless behavior, for one. His apathy towards money another. In fact, Clara had been the first person with whom he could truly bring these aspects into light. And she hadn't received them with judgement, but with kindness and understanding. He was touched in knowing that she could do the same with him.

"Thank you for telling me," he said quietly. Clara raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"I assume insomnia was a contributing factor, then?" she asked, referring to her incident that had occurred just moments before. She flexed her fingers, suddenly grateful for her ability to do so. The Doctor watched her movements with a furrowed brow.

"A lack of sleep can harm the body's ability to regulate hormones pertaining to stress," he replied, urging her to take more water as he explained. "And seeming as though this trip has been anything but a peaceful getaway—" He dodged the look she gave him. "—it isn't entirely unfathomable why something like this happened. The TARDIS wouldn't start, you were stressed, and..." he trailed off, unable to continue. His eyes flicked to hers, a mixture of worry and guilt embedded in green. "But you're safe now, I promise."

It was the second time he'd assured her of that, and like the first, she trusted him wholeheartedly. Finishing off the last of her water, she reflected upon the past day or so, and realized how this incident could be seen as a pinnacle of sorts. They were nearly robbed yesterday morning, and were now stranded in a tiny town with a failed engine and no way out. Having dealt with that atop of pre-interview stress was a concerning combination, to say the least.

"Has anything like this happened before?" The Doctor asked. She shook her head.

"Never," she told him, drawing her lips into a thin line. "What if my refusal to sleep was the difference between nearly passing out and being perfectly fine?"

"No one is perfectly fine," he pointed out, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Otherwise I'd be out of a job."

She smiled at that.

"I don't want anything like that happening again," she admitted, more to herself than to him. "And I know I'm not trained in medicine, but I know I can improve my sleeping habits without having to take any medication." The fact that medication was even on the table at this point was discerning. As if these past few moments weren't eye-opening enough. The Doctor nodded.

"I think so, too."

Suddenly determined to make things work, Clara requested his help in getting her internal clock back on track—through a checklist, of all methods. She'd cut her caffeine intake to two cups a day. Writing an hour before bedtime was prohibited, something she wasn't looking forward to, as she spent most of her nights staring at a computer screen. ( _"A pen and paper will work just as well,"_ he reassured her.) By the end of it, she didn't know if she was grateful they'd worked together in compiling the list, or simply distressed that she could no longer depend on coffee to keep her awake.

"Thank you," she told him afterwards, staring at her loopy handwriting on the napkin she'd scribbled on. A blush crept up the sides of her neck. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

"You don't need to apologize," he said, just glad she was okay. In fact, he was proud of her. Allowing oneself to be helped always seemed more difficult than receiving the help itself. At least in his experience. "Whatever you need, I'm here for you."

It was the most reassuring thing he could've said. Letting out a long sigh, Clara smoothed out the napkin on the table, and asked, "You really think I can do it?"

"I know you can," he replied, taking her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. Her fingers, warm and working and alive, squeezed back twice. "Brave heart, Clara."

* * *

She didn't know what surprised her more—the motorbike standing in front of them, or the fact that The Doctor actually knew how to drive one. He was licensed and everything. And she _actually_ believed that she knew a fair deal about him already.

"Are you serious?" was the first thing she asked, staring at his license in complete dubiety. "How old are you in this?"

"Nineteen," he replied mournfully, covering the grainy picture with his thumb. "Don't look at my hair. I was in a very bad place at the time."

"This bike's been with me for about six years, and I've never taken it out of Sherrodsville," Ilene told them, wiping down the front fender with a dirt rag. "Ironically enough, it was a traveler who sold it to me. Said he didn't need it anymore."

"New bike?" The Doctor asked.

"New baby," she corrected him. "Apparently a sidecar was out of the question."

Since Ilene was visiting her daughter in Princeton the coming week, she said their best bet was to take the motorbike to New York and have it picked up at a later time. Their only other concern was that of their luggage—which would have to be shipped to an address in the city. Whatever they could fit into their backpacks was all they could reasonably travel with. The TARDIS would be fixed as soon as parts were available and returned to the nearest airport, which unfortunately was forty-three minutes away. Ilene claimed she didn't mind driving the distance for them.

Whether or not they could trust this woman they'd only met only an hour ago was the least of The Doctor's concerns. In fact, over the course of these past few days, he'd placed his faith into more strangers than he had in his entire lifetime. From Clara herself to The Captain in Reno, he found himself incredibly lucky to be surrounded by such good people. He wasn't sure if he could say the same for the past four years of his life.

"We don't have to take up her offer," he promised Clara when he pulled her aside not a minute later. "Your health is our first and foremost priority, and if any part of you feels the slightest bit unsure about this, then we can—"

"Let's do it."

To say he was thrown by her response was an understatement. Blinking back in incredulity, The Doctor found himself taken aback by the set determination in her brown eyes. Never had she been more on board with anything these past two days.

"Are you sure?" he asked her, licking his lips. "I don't know if you're fully well enough to travel, lest of all without a seat-belt."

"Do we have any other options?" she asked him, her voice earnest. "We made a promise to each other that we'd get to New York on time, and I'm not willing to give up when we've come this close to making it."

His ambition was aligned with hers, but his concern for her was far more pressing. He'd already had her drink three bottles of water. But the expression she held told him that she would refuse to stay put, no matter how much he advised it. They hadn't traveled two thousand miles to stop now. Despite this, The Doctor let out a slow exhale, and nodded.

"Okay," he said, looking at her in resignation. "But you need to take it easy, alright?"

"It's what I'm good at," she replied, giving him a sidelong glance. He shook his head.

"And change your outfit. I'm not letting you on the bike wearing those," he said, gesturing to her open-toed shoes. She willfully agreed and left to go grab her belongings from the TARDIS.

He watched her go, telling himself repeatedly that she was fine now, that he'd never disagreed to do this sort of thing before. What had changed? Why did he suddenly hesitate on what was otherwise an easy decision? Seeing Clara in pain back at the restaurant had scared him far more than he let on. Looking at her retreating figure now made him realize just how much he could care for another person. And that made all the difference.

"Have you finally resorted to hitchhiking?" Amy asked when she picked up the phone after the second ring. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"No, although I don't think this next option will be any better," he admitted behind bared teeth.

His friend listened patiently as he explained to her their current situation—from their failed engine to the motorbike that continued to stare at him from the corner of the garage. Ilene had taught him how to start the vehicle, a process he'd repeated several times over to assure that it was fully functional. He didn't need another incident like this happening in another town. They'd been lucky enough to land in Sherrodsville to begin with.

"And Clara's fully on board with this?" Amy asked once he was done. The Doctor ran a hand over his face.

"She told me she was," he replied uneasily. He omitted what had happened in the restaurant but was apprehensive nonetheless. Amy picked up on this, and was even a bit surprised to hear him second-guessing himself. Perhaps the two travelers had influenced each other more than she'd initially anticipated.

"By god, you've converted her," she said, sounding exasperated. He grimaced.

"I don't know, I think the determination is all her own," he admitted, eyes trained on the open door in which she left. "Her interview is in less than twenty-four hours."

"Do you think you're going to make it on time?"

"I don't think we have any other choice."

"Well, you gotta give it to her. If I were stuck with you for two days, I'd be eager to get to New York, too."

The Doctor managed to smile at that. Amy always knew how to alleviate the tension from a situation.

"I miss you, Pond. Happy birthday."

"My birthday's not until tomorrow," she reminded him. "But I miss you too, you big idiot. Now hurry up and get here! Rory's gone to the store twice already to pick up cleaning solution. I'm getting high off of the fumes; I need you to talk some sense into him."

Amy agreed to have their luggage shipped to her place and wished them well on the remainder of their trip out East. The Doctor found himself smiling at her contact photo for minutes after she hung up. It was a selfie she had snapped with the flash on, and while it wasn't the most flattering portrait, it definitely embodied everything that she was. Hilarious, lively. Someone he could truly depend on. Interviews aside, he had his own reasons for wanting to get to New York. His best friends were there. That in itself was enough to get him excited again.

The Doctor kick-started the motorbike for a test run, the purring of the engine making his pulse quicken as he drove it up and down the street. It had been about a year since he last rode, but he grew accustomed to it within minutes. It was the kind of skill you never forgot, like swimming, or riding a bike. This was just another _type_ of bike, he supposed.

Clara emerged from the garage not a moment later, wearing a pair of boots and a heavy denim jacket. He pulled up beside her and flipped up the visor on his helmet.

"Can I take you for a spin?" he asked her in a scarily accurate American accent. She put on her sunglasses and shook her head.

"You're insufferable."

"And you're _brilliant_ ," he said, beaming.

They organized their backpacks and exchanged contact information with Ilene, who promised to call them once she mailed their belongings and returned the TARDIS to the rental lot in North Canton. Clara embraced her in a hug before exiting the garage, the car mechanic's eyes growing wide from the unexpected gesture. She patted the young writer awkwardly on the back.

"Thank you," Clara told the woman, pulling away. "I don't know how to repay you."

"No need," Ilene replied, the corner of her lips curling into a smile. "The world deserves a bit of basic human decency from time to time."

She was out the door afterwards, while The Doctor lingered behind a moment longer to pay his respects to the TARDIS. It was his last time seeing the vehicle, and though he'd never admit it aloud, he was a tad bit emotional over the loss. It had served them well for over two thousand miles. Parting with it was almost like losing a friend.

"It's been a pleasure," he murmured, resting a hand on the hood, rich blue splayed out beneath his fingertips. His reflection was now muddled behind a fine layer of dust. The workers who had spotted him likely thought he was daft, but he didn't mind—he'd had an absolute blast driving the TARDIS. It was certainly one of the better decisions he'd made.

Ilene raised an eyebrow when she pulled her hand away from their shake, only to find forty dollars in cash nestled into her palm. The Doctor already paid for the engine rebuild.

"I'm not looking for charity," she told him, handing the money back. But his hands had already retreated to his pockets in firm resolution.

"It's not charity," he promised. "It's simply an act of kindness. Of course, it doesn't hold a candle to what you've offered to do for us, but...hopefully it makes up for some of it."

She shot him a sideways glance. The girl certainly struck gold with this one. Not because of the cash in her hand or the eloquence of his words, but because of the compassion that came so easily from him. He gave as if there was nothing to lose—or gain, for that matter. She admired that. Respected it, even.

"Well, for what it's worth," she said, pocketing the money. "Whatever it is you're running towards, I hope you get there."

The young man nodded, backing away in an eager skip. The keys to her bike jingled in the palm of his hand.

"I hope so, too."

* * *

Clara wasn't quite sure what had happened. One second she was upright, the wind roaring in her ears. The next, her grip on The Doctor's waist was pulled free, and the ground had suddenly become her sky.

"You okay back there?" he asked her just minutes before, his voice raised against the sound of the rumbling engine. It was the third time he'd asked in the past hour, though her response to the question had been the same every time.

"Yep. Peachy keen," she reassured him from behind her bulky helmet. A fine layer of sweat had developed between the inside padding and her hair, but it was expected when traveling amidst the summer heat. The sun was on its descending path, a cloudless shade of midnight blue blending into orange at the horizon. Flecks of stars dotted the sky like freckles.

Her hold around The Doctor's waist had long since relaxed since they'd left Sherrodsville, the distance between them and the town increasing and increasing until it eventually became too far to turn back. Clara looked upon the open road for miles as if it were an opponent, but soon found her focus wandering elsewhere. The gangling limbs of the trees. The slight thrill of tracing a sharp curve in the road. She was surprised to be enjoying herself, the fearlessness within her foreign yet entirely exhilarating.

Then the car appeared around the bend. She didn't know why her brain had taken so long to process it, but for a full few seconds, she could've sworn they were fine. It wasn't until The Doctor tensed beneath her grip that she knew something was amiss.

The driver was swerving. A pair of blinding headlights traveled lazily from to left to right, though The Doctor knew the vehicle was hurdling towards them at a far more alarming speed. Moments away from being hit, his instinct was the only available asset to him.

Banking right, he felt the front tire hit loose gravel, the momentum of the bike causing them to skid instantaneously. His side smashed against the ground. Clara was no longer behind him.

It was a split-second decision. Why the universe had given him such a choice, he never knew. All he could focus on was the onslaught of pain raging through his body, the blood screaming in his ears. He tried to form Clara's name with his lips, but the darkness claimed him much faster.

_"You were too fast to live, to young to die."_

The sky went black.


	14. Lost and Found

When Clara lost her mother at sixteen, she felt as though a promise had been broken.

Of course, she knew it wasn't her mother's fault. Strength had drained from Ellie Oswald's once-able body like water spiraling down a tap, and her daughter could do little but sit there and watch it happen. Even the people who studied years of medicine couldn't contribute much to her family's case. Clara never relinquished her fierce grip on her mother's hand throughout the routinely sessions of chemo and cold cap therapy. She felt as if the tighter she held on, the more she was anchoring her to life. As if Ellie already had one foot out the door.

Losing her was like Bank Holiday Monday all over again, except this time, Clara was never found. Forever trapped in a horde of strange faces and murmured conversations, she would turn in circles before realizing that there was no way out. Schoolmates regarded her as if she had suddenly turned fragile. Their families smothered her broken one with several unhelpful condolences. And life became this navigating quest she never once asked for. People were rooting for her, but would never want to embark on such an expedition themselves.

"What's the biggest lie you've ever been told?" Nina once asked her.

It was an ungodly hour in the morning, and they were sprawled out across Clara's mattress with their legs propped up against the adjacent wall. Their voices were hoarse after discussing her recent breakup with Danny in full detail. It was clear that the question was aimed towards romantic relationships—even more so, intentional lies. But her mother's words immediately came to mind.

_"It doesn't matter where you are, in a jungle or the desert or the moon. However lost you may feel, you'll never really be lost. Not really. Because I will always be here, and I will always come and find you. Every single time."_

Clara had never been to a jungle or a desert, much less the moon. In fact, her university was only about an hour away from home. But even though she knew exactly where she was, she'd never felt more lost. Her mother wasn't coming to save her with a warm smile and fiercely protective embrace. She couldn't even feel her in her heart, which is where every deceased relative seemed to go. Illness not only tore Ellie apart, but the words she once gave to her daughter years ago. Clara was fully convinced she would never believe in them again.

But life had a way of proving her wrong. Even if she didn't realize it at first.

_"Miss?"_ a voice called out to her through the fog. _"Miss, can you hear me?"_

A strangled groan escaped from the back of her throat. Her eyes fluttered open, the scent of grass and wet earth filling her nostrils. It took her several seconds to adjust to the darkness, and even then, all she could make out were tall, looming silhouettes against a nuanced night sky. Not even the stars were poignant enough to pierce through the dense canopy of trees.

_"Miss, are you alright?"_

Lifting her head from the grass, Clara felt the weight of her helmet strain her neck and shoulders. A dull pain pulsed between her eyes. Where was she? Where had they parked the TARDIS? She couldn't recall agreeing to sleep on the forest floor, but given her strangely impulsive decisions these past two days, she wouldn't put it past her.

Suddenly, memories began to resurface. The sputtering TARDIS engine. The thick odor of gasoline enclosed in the walls of an auto-repair shop. The unkempt hair of a nineteen year-old boy, smiling at her from the corner of a biker's license. _The Doctor's_ license. His name alone was enough to careen her back into reality.

Clara shot up like a bullet, nearly colliding with the stranger who was hunched over her. From what she could discern, it was a woman. Her face appeared muddled behind the visor of the helmet, more specifically the grime streaked across the tinted plastic like warpaint. Every breath she took was heavy and amplified.

"W-Where am I?" she asked first, her voice barely audible. Using the remainder of her strength, she reached up to unclasp her helmet; the stranger immediately rushed forward to help her remove it. The biting wind alleviated the heat clinging to her face and neck. "What happened?"

A pair of grey eyes suddenly became the center of her focus. Cautious and filled with worry, they regarded her for a moment in deliberating silence. It was at that moment in which Clara felt the pain seep into her skin like a bed of needles. She bared her teeth and tried to contain her whimper as it traveled down the rest of her aching body.

"We're about forty minutes west of McKean County," the woman replied, the rest of her features filling in slowly. She wore a dark blue coat lined with wool, and her hair was a chestnut brown, parted in the middle by a thick fringe. She sat back on her heels and wrung her frail fingers in her lap. Confusion must have been clear as day on Clara's face, because she added, "Pennsylvania state."

Her eyes scanned the terrain with a disoriented perception, making out the faint rays of moonlight bending around the trees, until they eventually saw the helmet in her now-trembling hands. A crack was carved deep into its surface, spindly branches reaching out in several directions. Had she chosen not to wear it, her skull would've suffered far worse. The helmet tumbled into the grass.

"I found your motorcycle on the side of the road," the woman explained, her calm disposition a balm for the rising terror in Clara's stomach. "You must have blacked out from the crash."

_The crash. Bloody hell,_ she thought to herself, trying to remember what had happened but struggling to retrieve her own thoughts. Dark red scrapes adorned her fingers. Her denim jacket was destroyed, bloodied flesh pooling out of each elbow. A tear in her jeans revealed a ghastly wound where she'd last seen skin. It hurt to move, to _think._ Every square inch of her body was burning.

"How long have I been out?" she croaked, digging the heels of her filthy palms into her eyes. She could feel the stranger's gaze on her regardless.

"I don't know. I only just got here. You're friend, he's—"

"Where is he?" Clara interjected, her eyes searching the perimeter in a panic. She could suddenly recall the moment her arms had let go of him, as if gravity itself had grabbed her with its vicious hand and yanked her backwards. That one memory was enough to make the bile rise in her throat. "Is he hurt?"

The woman drew her lips into a thin line as she pointed a finger towards the shadows ahead. "I tried waking him up, but he wouldn't stir. He's alive, however—"

Clara let out a pained cry as she bolted upwards from the ground, head pounding as her blood rushed from the sudden movement. Her damaged skin stretched and tore as she stood, but she managed to balance on her two feet without collapsing entirely. The woman shot her a surprised look, which Clara disregarded as she squinted into the darkness and began walking.

"Doctor?" she called out, her voice still fragile and hoarse. Clearing her throat, she yelled, _"DOCTOR!"_

She heard the frantic footsteps of the stranger a few paces behind. "There are no doctors here, miss. But we need to get you to one right away—"

"No," Clara spoke over her, shaking her head. She was limping at an excruciating slowness. "That's not what I meant. I just...I need to find him. I _need_ to find The Doctor."

"Who on earth are you talking about?"

Not a second later, a faint outline of a body emerged from the shadows. She didn't need to come closer to know who it was. Her wrecked knee suddenly became the least of her problems as she broke out into a sprint towards The Doctor, every part of her body barking in protest as she fell beside him.

A web of cracks stretched across the visor of his helmet lying a few feet away. His entire right side was scraped to ribbons from the accident, warm blood oozing onto the purple tweed of his coat. But nothing was more heart-stopping than his face. Shadows pooled around his eyes, and the hollowed-out expression he wore was startling and wholly unfamiliar. Clara couldn't help it. She burst into tears.

It didn't matter that there was a stranger there watching her unravel, or that every direction she faced was met with unending darkness—the fact that The Doctor was hurt ran through her like a blade. Was he in pain? Was he awake when it had happened? Or had his world disappeared the moment he chose to bank right? Her mind tried to grab hold of any possible answers, but it was impossible. She couldn't even control her own tears, and her shoulders refused to stop shaking.

_"Surely, you don't need to cry over me,"_ she envisioned him telling her, a cheeky grin on his face. _"You know all unconscious people come back. Save the tears for something more important_ — _like your best mate's wedding, or a soppy film."_

"Y-You're gonna be okay, alright?" she managed in between sobs, resting her ear to his chest. Hot tears soaked the front of his shirt, and the blood in her ears was now screeching—but despite the orchestration of chaos that surrounded her, she could detect The Doctor's heartbeat through the thick of it all. Steady and ongoing and _alive._

_Bless the stars, you're still alive._

"We need to get you two out of the cold," the woman said after a moment, resting a gentle hand on Clara's back. "The nearest hospital is an hour away, so it would be easier to take you back to my place. A good friend of mine is a family physician; he should be able to see if anything's broken."

Clara drew in a sharp breath, lifting her head from The Doctor's chest and wiping her runny nose on her sleeve. She felt as if she were navigating blindly, plunging her faith into the hands of this grey-eyed stranger. But she hadn't any other choice. And it certainly wouldn't be the first time she had sought help from someone she knew so little of.

"Yes, of course," she replied in a whisper, lifting her eyes to meet that of the stranger's. She was so unsettled by her surroundings that she had forgotten how to behave properly. "I'm Clara, by the way. And what is your name?"

"Emma," she replied briskly, well aware that formalities weren't important at this moment. Gesturing towards the red convertible parked several meters ahead, she said, "Come on, now. I can have my husband go back for the motorcycle tomorrow morning. We need to lift your friend into the car."

Carrying The Doctor was a cumbersome task, especially since Clara's strength was comparable to that of a newborn doe's. He was undoubtedly lanky and took up the entirety of the backseat. Emma had to tuck his legs in before closing the door. While Clara winced at how cramped he was, she refused the passenger seat and instead sat with his head in her lap, squeezing his scratched-up hand with her own. Just as he had done back in Sherrodsville. To think that was a mere few hours ago was mind-boggling.

The ride to wherever they were headed was mostly silent, which Clara was appreciative of. Emma very much understood the severity of the situation, only breaking the silence to make a phone call. Her hand tightened around her cell phone as the other calmly guided the steering wheel, her eyes clear as day and focused on the dark road ahead.

"Alec? Yes—I'm coming home, I need you to phone Dr. Docherty for me...no, I'm fine. I passed a motorcycle incident along the Interstate, and there's a young couple who are in need of help." Her gaze flicked to Clara's in the rear-view mirror. "Do you have a place to stay?"

She shook her head. "No, we're not from here. Sorry."

"No need to apologize," Emma reassured her, returning to her call. "We need two guest rooms prepared, please. Okay, I love you. See you in a bit."

Clara ran her thumb across The Doctor's cheek, desperately searching for a response from him. She pulled his coat more tightly around him to staunch the blood flow from his rib injuries, and in the process, noticed a lump beneath the thick purple tweed. Carefully pulling back the material, she reached into the coat's inner pocket, and retrieved The Doctor's cell phone. Its screen was shattered, remnants of his blood filling the spaces where glass once held intact. She pushed aside her nausea and tried turning it on. A distorted image of a red battery blinked back at her.

Reaching for her backpack that Emma had collected from the bike, the young woman fumbled with the zipper and blindly searched for her portable charger. Even when her mind was racing, a small, practical part of her was outlining the steps ahead. She needed to call Amy and tell her what had happened. The Doctor's best friend deserved to know of his condition at the earliest opportunity.

_Especially since it's my fault he ended up here,_ she thought to herself, but refused to feel the weight of her guilt until later. Now was not the time.

She was grateful her charger had remained in one piece, though her laptop had suffered a far more damaging fate. The device she had used to write hundreds of blog entries and English papers now lay in pieces at the bottom of her backpack. Had this been any other situation, she'd go ballistic over the several weeks' worth of lost work, of articles she'd never be able to rewrite with the same quick-wittiness as before. But staring at the ruined piece of machinery provoked nothing within her now. In fact, all she saw were shards of glass and plastic.

Nothing was nearly as valuable to her as the person lying in her lap. The only person on this entire bloody continent that she cared about.

_How can you sleep_ —a voice inside of her asked— _knowing it was_ your _foolish decision-making that ultimately got you into this mess? The Doctor warned you about this. You hurt him, Clara. You locked him inside his own dreams, and it's_ your _doing._

"We're almost to the house," Emma said, saving Clara from the snares of her own thoughts. "We should be there in about ten minutes. Has he shown any signs of stirring yet?"

Blinking back her tears, Clara looked from Emma's pale eyes to The Doctor's closed ones, as if expecting him to open them at any moment and stare at her quizzically. But there was nothing. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

"No, not yet. Is that normal?"

"I've seen cases where victims lay unconscious for hours, if not more. So we're not in the clear quite yet, but give him time. He'll come round."

Clara nodded. Her hand returned to cusp his face, his warm skin now drained of color.

"His name is John. John Smith," she told Emma. "I don't think I've told you that yet. He's a doctor, fresh out of medical school. Kind enough to invite me to travel along with him." She quieted, her rapid heartbeat drowning out the sound of her own voice. "I...I can't lose him. It's my fault that he's hurt."

"Were you the one driving?"

"Well, no. But—"

Suddenly, The Doctor shifted beneath her hands, a low murmur escaping him. All eyes in the vehicle cut to him as he cautiously turned within the confined space, his expression adopting pain, confusion. Clara pushed the sweaty locks of hair away from his forehead, wanting nothing more than to hold him close and will away his injuries. _Pain is good,_ she tried to convince herself. _It would be worse if he felt nothing at all._

"Clara..." The name was but a whisper of breath on his lips, but the young writer heard him nonetheless. "What...what's going on?"

It took her a moment to locate her words. "There was an accident," explained to him quietly, hoping her wobbly voice held enough clarity for him to understand. "We crashed, but we're going to get help. You're going to be okay, alright?"

A flicker of anguish passed along his face. It was clear he hadn't fully returned to her. His eyes, glassy and dazed, latched onto Clara's through the shadows cast upon them. As if she were the only recognizable thing amidst the dark trees flitting past the car windows. Why on earth was he in the backseat with her? And who was in the driver's seat?

"And you?" he wondered, despite all this. Because nothing else was worth asking about. "Are you okay?"

The question caught her by surprise, and she laughed. It came out as a strangled cry. _Would it kill you to think about yourself once in a while?  
_

"Good," she reassured him, squeezing his hand with both of her own. He didn't have the strength to squeeze back. "Better."

"...good," he replied, traces of a grin appearing on his face. "That's good."

Clara held onto that look long after it faded from his expression, after sleep had come to claim him once more. But this time, it was as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. Simply hearing his voice, with its sardonic edge and unending humility, eased the majority of her worries. Still, her eyes refused to leave him for the remainder of the trip, even when the pine trees made way for the tall, historical houses of Smethport, Pennsylvania.

A little more than a thousand people resided in the town's quiet streets, the county it belonged to nestled just along the border of New York State. Often times, people settled in Smethport because settling was exactly what they sought out to do. After a lifetime of jet-setting and overseas adventure, it was the perfect place for aging couples to rest their bones and grow old together. Seldom did young adults yearn for its solitude and quaint culture.

"My husband and I, we own a bed and breakfast. So I do apologize if there are a few guests wandering about at this hour," Emma explained as she turned into the driveway of a four-story Gothic manor, where the cobblestone pavement snaked back into a courtyard equipped with a garage and garden. Warm hues of the porch light danced upon The Doctor's features as the woman parked close to the back entrance and killed the engine. The two travelers' labored breathing and the chirping of crickets were the only discernible sounds.

"Alec!" Emma hissed once she got out of the car, craning her neck upwards to spot her partner balanced on the topmost rung of a ladder. "I told you—no more construction on the house after sundown. You can barely see a thing up there!"

"Well, I couldn't have had our guests arrive to a half-mangled rooftop, that'd be a _travesty_ ," he murmured back, quickly descending from the ladder to greet his wife with a swift kiss on the lips. From what Clara could spot of him from the backseat window, he wore a brown coat and a pair of spectacles.

Emma managed a small, if not grim, smile. "I think our incomplete rooftop is the least of these people's concerns."

"...I think it looks nice," the young writer interjected, having kicked open the door to let some fresh air in. The owners of the bed and breakfast immediately turned to look at her in surprise. She smiled, grasping The Doctor's hand. "I'm Clara Oswald. And this is my friend, Dr. John Smith."

"Ah, yes. The young travelers themselves." The man's eyes widened in urgency as he came forward to take Clara's bloodied hand in greeting. "Alec Palmer. Welcome to our home. Do forgive our incessant bickering. Emma and I are growing old, you see."

Despite herself, Clara felt a grin spread across her face. She appreciated his composure—he didn't cringe or shy away from the blood caking her clothes and skin. Instead, he instantly helped her out from the backseat and asked if she were strong enough to help carry The Doctor inside. It was as if these people were no strangers to misfortune. Either that, or they were just incredibly kind.

"Living in such a remote area has its fair share of responsibilities," Emma explained once they had transferred The Doctor onto the parlor couch, where a fresh linen sheet had been draped over the musty yellow cushions. Before Clara could even open her mouth, a colorfully-threaded blanket was placed into her hands by an awaiting employee. She gave her thanks and fussed over tucking it beneath The Doctor's chin. "As I mentioned before, the nearest hospital is in the next town over. Some people are better off treated here, so we rely on one another when needed."

"That's really admirable," Clara said, twisting around to face the woman. The thought of having an entire town, however small, at your back in sickness and in health made her smile. But surely they had to have some form of medical care, even out here between the large masses of trees and abandoned road. Who provided the knowledge to care for all these people?

The doorbell broke apart her thoughts. Ancient and poignant, it traveled through the hallways of the manor, reverberating off of the walls adorned in tapestries and richly-colored paintings.

"That must be Dr. Docherty," Alec announced, excusing himself from the parlor to go attend to the family physician. Clara nibbled on her thumbnail in apprehension. Would Dr. Docherty be able to explain things as effectively as John had back in Sherrodsville? She knew better than to compare—after all, this man had agreed to come in the dead of night to care for them—but she couldn't help it. She'd been surrounded by two physicians her entire life: her pediatrician, and the one currently in a deep slumber to her left. It was impossible not to feel the least bit worried.

"I'll go fetch hot water and towels, get you two cleaned up," Emma offered, laying a hand on Clara's shoulder in reassurance. "Can I get you anything while I'm at it? A cup of tea, perhaps?"

"A cup of tea does sound nice, thank you," she replied, trying not to let her smile falter as the woman disappeared into the shadows of the adjacent corridor. Clara heard Emma exchange pleasantries with the approaching doctor just a few meters away. He sounded younger than the young writer expected. It wasn't until he entered the room that she realized he was a _lot_ younger than expected.

It was the hair she noticed first. Much like The Doctor's the first time she saw him, it gravitated towards several different directions, except this time, it looked as if it was _meant_ to behave in such a way. His outlandish attire was also a cause of speculation, as he was dressed in a pinstripe suit, the collar of his shirt folded haphazardly over a patterned tie.

But the thing she found the most profound about him wasn't his stick-thin figure, or the sand-shoes that crossed the threshold of the parlor. It was the fact that each and every one of his features aligned perfectly with that of a certain character in her book. _'Withering Rose.'_

_You're dreaming again,_ she told herself, thinking it couldn't be true. She had seen people who resembled characters in books, but her imagination was never _this_ accurate before. It was as if Rose's unearthly counterpart had stepped out of the pages of the novel itself. The uncanny similarity between fact and fiction was enough to make her eyes widen to saucers. This was either a sheer coincidence, or the anonymous author to _'Withering Rose'_ was closer than Clara might have thought.

Her mind was racing so rapidly that she almost didn't hear the man introduce himself.

"Hello. I'm David Docherty," he said politely, extending his hand out for a shake. "I hear you're in need of a physician?"


	15. Out Of The Woods

First was the light. Pale and faint, it hit his eyelids and appeared to him like a flashlight at the end of a tunnel.

Second was the smell. It he had to put a name to it, it would be old wood with a tinge of mildew. _Not exactly a Yankee candle, is it?_ he thought to himself.

And finally, he was sinking. Not into a pool or an ocean—or any body of water for that matter—but a mattress. In fact, as The Doctor came to, he reached the conclusion that this was the softest bed he'd ever slept in.

This trip was full of superlatives. 'Most Memorable Car' went to the TARDIS. 'Worst Possible Near-Death Experience' was a tie between Reno and their crash on the interstate, though The Doctor's memory was too foggy to choose a winner. He'd have to ask Clara's opinion on it later.

The young writer herself deserved the highest form of superlative, though he hadn't quite figured that out yet. It needed to embody everything he adored about her—from her inability to allow anything out of a hair's reach from her control, to the taste of her lips when she kissed him earlier that morning. Summarizing that into a worthy statement would prove itself difficult, to say the least. She was the most unexpected thing about this trip and the quickest person to have ever gained access to his heart.

Which is why, when he woke up alone in the dead of night, the silence was enough to unnerve him.

It wasn't that he was immune to fear. He'd just never cared for anything—or _anyone_ —so deeply up until then. Before he climbed into the TARDIS with Clara two days ago, he had nothing to lose. His parents only existed in memories and the way his heart hurt when he thought about them for too long. The Ponds, while still an integral part of himself, had lived over three thousand miles away for the past four years. And his wealth was but a possession tainted in loss. It was easy to be reckless when so little mattered to him. Often times, it felt like his only choice.

The room was bathed in warm, orange light, the candle on the dresser making shadows flicker and dance on the wood-paneled walls. He appeared to be swaddled in a quilt beneath layers of bedding and an old-fashioned comforter. A glass of water sat on the bedside table; he didn't realize how badly he needed it until he tried using his voice.

"Clara—?" The Doctor managed, the back of his throat burning. He sat up, realizing his mistake as soon as the pain rippled through the left side of his body. Breaking free of the quilt, he caught sight of the bandages peeking out from underneath an unusually large Penn State tee. Not a moment passed before he was ripping those off, too. Pink and damaged flesh stared back at him, his once-healthy skin now searing from injury. He winced as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Where _was_ he?

Casting a distrustful glance around the room, he slowly pushed himself up and walked into the corridor, where faint voices traveled up the staircase ahead. He walked towards them, leaving the door ajar and taking the steps one at a time. His complete lack of understanding outweighed his need to be discreet as he pushed through the kitchen door at the foot of the stairs, where a couple stood doing dishes at the sink. They immediately startled upon his entrance, their eyes widening at the mere sight of him. It was as if they'd just seen a ghost.

"You're awake," the woman breathed, dropping her tea towel to attend to him. "This all must be very disorienting for you."

"...very," The Doctor replied, looking behind him uncertainly. Doing so didn't provide him with the context he needed. "Do forgive me, but am I breaking and entering?"

"Not to my knowledge," the man offered. The Doctor nodded.

"Good, good. I hoped I wasn't," he said, confusion and slight discomfort passing over his face. This all vaguely reminded him of that one bedtime story. The one with the three bears. "Where am I, then?"

"Smethport, Pennsylvania."

"I'm sorry— _where?_ "

The aging man merely adjusted his spectacles with a chuckle. "Exactly."

"We've been worried sick," the woman shook her head, traces of worry etched in her grey eyes. She seemed to be debating between scolding her partner for his facetious behavior and making their injured guest a cup of tea. "It's good to see you're feeling better. I wish I could say the same for your friend."

"Clara," The Doctor clarified. His stomach plunged. "Where is she? Is she okay—?"

"She's fine," the man interrupted. "Poor thing hasn't slept a wink since she's arrived. She's convinced herself that you've become a vegetable."

"Alan!"

The Doctor would've found the man's words lighthearted if not for the guilt beginning to boil within him. He hadn't meant to scare Clara. He hadn't meant to put her through any of this to begin with. The moment he chose to bank right was the moment he knew he had made a terrible mistake. He should have come up with something better, something more clever, something that would result in anything but _this—_

Someone cleared their throat behind him. He froze.

"You're alive. I was almost beginning to doubt it."

Hearing her voice after hours of hearing nothing at all was almost too good to be true. Turning around to see her standing there, leaning on the door-frame of the kitchen, was even more improbable. It was the sheer wit in her eyes, shrouded by layer upon layer of exhaustion, that sobered him. The bandages weaved between her delicate fingers. The way her jaw twitched each time she put weight on her right leg.

"You've removed your bandages already," Clara said behind a wince, eyeing the bruises and scrapes adorning his arms. "You need to have those replaced immediately."

He couldn't help it. His face split into a wide grin.

"Not a moment too soon and you're already giving me instructions," he teased, shaking his head. "Blimey, I've missed you."

"Yeah?" she asked, a smile filling her face. He nodded.

"Yeah."

A few seconds passed in complete silence, the two travelers exchanging tentative glances with one another. Clara was unable to believe that despite everything that had happened, from the moments of unbearable panic and dread, there was still room for gratitude in her heart. In fact, as she beheld this man before her, with his extra large Penn State tee and bed-tousled hair, she began to laugh. He was okay. Actually, properly okay. Battered and bruised in a few areas, but strong enough to envelop her in a crushing embrace as she ran towards him.

Just a few hours ago, she felt the ground disappear beneath her feet. Now, she never felt more steady.

Pulling away, she craned her neck to meet his eye, and said, "I've missed you, too."

* * *

"A pulled ligament in the wrist, two bruised ribs, and a gnarly case of road rash, which sounds a lot more unpleasant than it looks." David exhaled through his nose, pocketed his penlight, and sank into a nearby armchair. They had reconvened in the parlor, the serenity of the moonlit garden providing much needed solace to the guests from outside the tall windows. "Thankfully, your visual reflexes are still in check, and there's no signs of severe head trauma."

"So a concussion is out of the question?" Clara asked behind her fourth cup of tea. The corner of David's mouth tilted into a small smile.

"I do know how to ask myself, you know," The Doctor joked from beside her. Despite his objections, the young writer had been fretting for the past hour: constantly asking if he was lightheaded, refilling his water after he'd taken a single sip. He had to enjoin her to sit next to him as David performed the perfunctory measures of a physical exam. She'd stopped pacing to shoot him a look of utter incredulity, as if relaxing wasn't one of her God-given functions.

 _"Are you sure you're not dizzy?"_ she insisted instead, harassing a thumbnail. The Doctor wanted to stand up just so he could pry it from between her teeth.

_"No, but I will be if you don't stop pacing."  
_

She had long since sat by his side in disquiet, her lack of verbal directives made up for in worried stares. The Doctor laid a hand atop of hers, the warmth of his palm extinguishing whatever anxious flame she'd ignited within herself. He was appreciative for her concern, really. But he was beginning to feel concern _for_ her because of it.

"I wouldn't say we're out of the woods just yet, but we're getting there," David promised them, propping an ankle on his knee. "We'll monitor you throughout the night, see if any symptoms recur. The usual protocol. Until then, allow me to put you both on bed-rest." The young physician looked quizzically at the two of them. "Emma here tells me you two have been on the road for two days straight _._ Might I ask what attracted you to such an atrocity?"

The Doctor looked to the other couple in the room—the Palmer's, he'd recently learned—and then to Clara. She merely shrugged, as if to ask, _What else was I supposed to do while you were out? Combust?  
_

"It's been an unanticipated few days, that's for sure. But that's certainly not a bad thing," he reassured David, his hold on Clara's hand suddenly conspicuous. She didn't need to meet his eye to know what he meant by that. She would've blushed, even, if not for what he said next. "And I'm afraid bed-rest isn't exactly ideal at the moment."

Her reaction was just as, if not more, surprised than David's. And his eyebrows flew into his hairline.

"Oh?" David asked, a playful challenge in his tone. "I can understand a doctor's objections to a prescription not written by his own hand. But to turn down a good night's sleep? That's unheard of."

"A rarity, I know," The Doctor chuckled. "Trust me, if it were any other day, I'd oblige."

"Doctor..." Clara started, a warning tone in her voice. She leaned in to whisper in his ear. "You're not _seriously_ considering we keep going, are you?"

"No," he breathed in disbelief, matching her volume. "I'm firmly _encouraging_ we keep going. There's a difference."

"I don't know if you've realized, but we don't exactly have the means to do so," she quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. He spoke as if this entire debacle had been as inconvenient as a popped tire, or a traffic cone in the middle of the road. "We don't have the bike anymore, much less the TARDIS."

"Since when has that ever stopped us?" he attested. She grew quiet. "I know what this opportunity can mean for you, and it's—"

"Not worth it," she finished. The Doctor blinked back in surprise.

"Do you really think so?"

It didn't matter that there were three other people bearing witness to their hushed argument. It didn't matter that she was only a state away from what once seemed an attainable, tangible dream. She'd grown tired of hitting hurdle after hurdle. What if the universe had been telling her all this time that this wasn't what she was meant to be doing? Had she failed to read between the lines?

"No. Maybe?" she said bleakly, leaning her chin on his shoulder. "I want to believe that we can just pick ourselves up from this, but it's cost us more than two people should ever have to pay. It's a miracle enough that we made it."

"I know," he murmured, lowering his head. He appeared frustrated. "I know."

She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Can we please just go to bed and not think about tomorrow?"

It was a simple request. And although he nodded, there was no hiding the denial in his eyes, the way his jaw hardened with irresolution. Somehow, it spoke wonders more than anything he could have actually said.

"Bed-rest it is, then," he announced with a forced sort of smile, resting his hands on his knees and pushing himself up. His gaze eventually softened as he scanned the faces of those in the room. "Good night everyone, and thank you. I've never felt more...cared for. Lucky, even."

David watched him with a raised eyebrow as he exited the parlor, while Clara suppressed a long sigh. It was no doubt that their audience had detected the tension between The Doctor and her, the defeat in their tired, weary voices. At least they were polite enough to act as if they hadn't heard a thing. Emma and Alan soon excused themselves to finish up the dishes, leaving David and Clara to their own devices, soaking in silence.

"How do you do it?" she asked after a while, staring into her empty tea mug.

"Do what?"

" _This,"_ she said, gesturing to the bandages and bottles of pain medication discarded on the coffee table. "Friend calls in the middle of the night with an emergency, and you're here. Suited-up. Quite literally."

He let out a low chuckle, tapping on the armrests of the chair in deliberation. "Well, I was already wearing this from my twelve-hour shift, so I can't say I'm deserving of such credit." He peered down to inspect a stain on his wrinkled tie. "In fact, I'm more than certain that this is baby barf."

Clara couldn't help but laugh. "Your child, I'm guessing?"

He nodded, his eyes gleaming in endearment. "Her name is Genevieve. Jenny for short."

She smiled. The way pure joy and adoration overtook the exhaustion on his face spoke volumes. "You must love being a father. Especially if you're wearing her spit-up on your tie."

"It's my badge of honor," he defended amusedly, tossing the tie over a shoulder. "And to answer your question—I do what I do because I've been given so much. And it's _good._ Stressful and slightly malodorous at times, but good. How could I _not_ extend the opportunity for others to experience something similar?" His pulled his lips into a deep frown. "People say that it's a doctor's job to treat disease, or prescribe medication, but I think it's much simpler than that. I think it's a doctor's job to give people the chance at being happy."

He stood and bid her goodnight soon after that, promising to drop by first thing in the morning for a follow-up. And while she agreed and made ample conversation as she walked him to the door, her thoughts kept retreating to his words, now swimming in the forefront of her mind. Did The Doctor uphold a similar belief to the role—the _name_ —he'd chosen for himself all those years ago? Is that why he was so determined to finish out the trip, even as every invention of fate went against it? Clara assumed it was innate of him to turn a blind eye on risk and move forwards. But perhaps he was fully aware of the risks he'd been taking this entire time. Perhaps he still saw them—still saw _her_ —as worth it.

Those thoughts carried her up the staircase and to the door of the guest bedroom, where she drew in a shallow breath before knocking twice. A second passed. Two.

"It's open!"

The Doctor was sitting with the blankets strewn about him, running a thumb over the blood-caked screen of his shattered cell phone. Clara stopped a few feet away from the edge of the bed and folded her arms across her chest.

"Thanks for letting me use your portable charger." He jutted his chin out towards the piece of plastic sitting on the bedside table. It took her a great deal of effort not to look amused.

"I'm surprised your phone hasn't given out yet," she admitted, rocking back and forth on her heels. "Have you called Amy and Rory yet?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't want to impose. The last thing they need is for their friend to pronounce himself nearly dead."

She glanced towards the clock on the nearby desk. _2:14_ in the morning. Tuesday had turned into Wednesday already, and she hadn't even noticed. It felt strange to think that the day she'd been waiting for all these weeks just slipped in without her even knowing. It was dreadfully anti-climactic.

"I'm sorry we're not there to greet Amy on her birthday," she said, suddenly realizing the date. The Doctor smiled grimly in her direction.

"It's not as if she's unaccustomed to my absence," he conceded, letting out a small laugh. She bit her lower lip in apprehension, which he spotted faster than she'd anticipated. "You have that look on your face again."

"What look?"

"The one you wear when you're beating yourself up over something. I promise, I'm okay." He tried to beam at her despite the weariness on his face, even waving his hands in the air, as if to say, _See? Still in one piece!_

"But that's the thing. You shouldn't be _just_ okay. You should be in New York right now with your friends, painting the town red, listening to...I dunno, pigeon lectures."

" _Pigeon_ lectures?"

"I saw it in a travel magazine." _Highlighted it, too_. "Instead, you're stuck here in a house with road rash and four people you didn't even know _existed_ until this week, one of whom you're probably thinking has gone off the deep end."

"Clara. You know that's not true," he said. "I would never participate in a pigeon lecture."

It caught her so off-guard that she laughed.

"And if anyone here has gone off the deep end, it's not you." The humor in his eyes suddenly disappeared, revealing the sadness there that Clara had once detected thousands of miles ago in San Francisco. Back when they were but strangers to each other. "I never should have said yes to the motorbike. It was a stupid idea, and yet I went with it, knowing you weren't fully recovered yet. And I'm sorry."

"Don't peg this all on yourself. I agreed to it too, you know," she pointed out, perching herself on the edge of the mattress. Her gaze immediately gravitated towards the fresh bandages on his arms. The injuries beneath them. "Encouraged it, even. And god knows where we'd be if you hadn't made the decision to veer from the car. Six feet under, perhaps."

"I put you in danger."

"You saved our lives," she corrected him. "Don't you recognize that?"

"No. No, maybe I don't." He ran a hand over his tired face. "For the longest time, I never paid heed to my actions. I thought the world had waived it's right to hurt me, after everything it had already taken. And then I meet this writer—this brilliant, funny, _beautiful_ person—and I don't realize I've pulled her into direct fire of my decisions until it's too late. Which is why I can't let go of this, Clara. If I can help you get to New York, help you get the career you've been dreaming of and deserve, then...maybe this trip wouldn't have been for nothing."

_It's a doctor's job to give people the chance at being happy.  
_

"That's not true," she said, shifting towards him so she could meet his eye. "This trip has been anything but easy, but no matter what happens tomorrow, it wouldn't have been for nothing."

She wanted to tell him just how much these past few days had influenced her. How grateful she was that he'd been with her every step of the way. She never would have done half of the things on this road trip had he not been there to encourage her. To convince her that life wasn't meant to be navigated like a minefield. It was meant to be lived.

Instead, Clara drew herself closer to him until their breath mingled, the precision of her gaze absorbing his every feature. Slowly, she leaned forwards, grazing her lips against his. His warmth was magnetic as they fell together, her movements careful, deliberate. It conveyed a million things she wanted to say but couldn't find the words to.

The Doctor suppressed a low moan as he reached up to run an affectionate thumb down her cheek. His preceding thoughts always seemed to dissolve into white noise when he kissed her, the caress of her lips becoming his new center of focus. As she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in closer, he couldn't recall a time in which he'd felt more enamored by anyone before. It was as if a certain piece of his heart had always belonged to her.

He tasted tentatively with his tongue, Clara parting her lips to allow herself to revel in the taste of him. They were both fully aware of their racing heartbeats in the little space between them. It was easily the most vulnerable she'd ever allowed herself to be and the safest she'd ever felt in a long time.

He slid his hands beneath her thighs, a groan of pleasure escaping the back of her throat as he hoisted her onto his lap. She arched her back beneath his touch, unable to locate a single thought as she lost herself entirely in him. Every square inch of her body was burning; but it was anything but painful. In fact, the longer he traced the curves of her body, the more she forgot about the injuries she'd so carefully concealed just hours before.

It wasn't until the warmth of his fingers slid beneath the material of her shirt that he suddenly pulled away. Clara breathed heavily, confusion dancing across her features, until she realized why he'd hesitated. There was a piece of thick gauze pressed against the lower half of her ribs. It was as if he could see the torn flesh searing beneath it. Tilting her chin, she gently lifted the hem of her shirt to inspect it fully.

"Does it...does it hurt?" he asked, swallowing hard. "Are you in pain?"

"Not really," she admitted, lowering her shirt and carefully climbing off of his lap. "Not anymore."

They sat in silence for a minute or two, the heat between them dissipating into calmness that could only be gained from a quiet town like this. The sound of crickets filled their ears, and for a brief moment, Clara was at peace. Yes, there were still several issues hanging in the air—where to proceed from here being the first of them—but for now, the young writer wanted nothing but to lie down next to The Doctor and close her eyes.

"We should get some sleep," she told him in a whisper. He nodded, moving over on the bed and pulling back the covers. She climbed in beside him, letting out a relieved sigh as she settled into the cascade of warm blankets and pillows. She hadn't the faintest idea as to what tomorrow held. There were no plans, no expectations. Funnily enough, that was okay with her. She would fret about it in the morning.

The Doctor laid on his uninjured side, facing Clara with a glassy look in his eyes. Reaching across the mattress to cup his face, she slowly leaned over to press her lips onto his. The kiss was soft, tender, and over before he knew it, but there was no mistaking the doting look in her eyes as she pulled away and smiled at him sleepily.

"Good night, Doctor Smith," she said. The Doctor smiled fondly at the memory as he drifted off into a deep sleep.

"Good night to you too, Mrs. Oswald-Smith."


	16. Windfall

_**A piece of unexpected good fortune, typically one that involves receiving a large amount of money.** _

_"Hello! Hellooo? Hello...hah! Just kidding! I'm not actually here right now_ — _speak if you must."_

_BEEP!_

"Can you change your voicemail, Pond? It's severely misleading and in no way funny," The Doctor spat. "Has Rory taken my suggestion of buying twenty-five candles for the cake? He said it was hazardous, so I promised to stay in the back so I wouldn't set the tablecloth on fire. Again." He let out a slow exhale, trying not to let the inevitable disappointment seep into his tone. "Happy birthday, Pond. I wish I could be there to say it in person. Call me back if you get the chance."

He couldn't bring himself to reveal what had happened last night. Amy didn't deserve that kind of news over voicemail, especially not today. Especially not when she was expecting him to walk through her front door in a matter of hours. Perhaps if he kept it to himself, the reality of his circumstance would feel less real. Less consequential.

Morning dew curled around his ankles as he went back inside and slid the parlor door shut. Guests had sleepily trickled in from their upstairs rooms in various stages of undress: businessmen in stiff-collared shirts, families in their pajamas, hikers in worn-out athletic garb. The Doctor shouldered his way through the busy dining room and into the kitchen, where David sat at the Palmers' breakfast table, squinting at the newspaper.

"What's a three-letter word for a Scottish prick in a fast car?"

The Doctor furrowed his brow, leaning over the man's shoulder to get a better look. The follow-up was brief; David recited a series of commands, such as _"Follow the penlight with your eyes,"_ or, _"Can you walk to the door and back?"_ Only after The Doctor struggled to touch his toes was he officially cleared, but not without a few humored looks from the family physician himself. Since then, the daily cross-word puzzle had become their new center of focus.

"Can't say that I know," The Doctor murmured.

"Well, that makes two of us. And I was born in Scotland," David mused, tucking his yellow pencil behind an ear. He cocked his head to the right. "Emma left you that so you can ice your wrist. Keep it elevated on the table to reduce the swelling."

The Doctor frowned, picking up the package of frozen peas. "Do I need to carry this around with me all day?"

"It's a bag of frozen vegetables, John, not an ankle monitor," he teased. "I'll get you a compression bandage to immobilize it."

Clara crossed the threshold not a minute later, having showered and changed into one of Emma's floral jumpers, a pretty article of clothing she adored but had no intention of keeping. The Doctor's heart swelled with endearment just as it had when he'd awoken beside her earlier that morning. The writer herself now exchanged an intimate glance with him from across the room, her lips perking into a soft smile as she approached the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee.

"Miss Oswald!" David exclaimed from behind his paper as she sat down at the breakfast table. He'd traded in his pinstripe suit for a more casual attire, a cotton shirt and pair of jeans. "Glad to see you up and about. How're the ribs feeling? Still twenty-four of them?"

"All twenty-four present and accounted for," she informed him, cradling her mug in her lap. "Don't you have work this morning, Dr. Docherty? It's nearly eight."

"You two _are_ my work, as far as I'm concerned," he joked, pointed the pencil between the two travelers. "No, I'm on call for the next two days."

"Why isn't the rest of your family here, then?" Emma quipped from her place by the stove. David grimaced.

"I swear, I extended the invite! The missus has copy-edits due today—I've got a temporary eviction notice and everything," he declared ruefully. "In the meantime, I've been brushing up on the old vocabulary. Do you happen to know a three-letter word for a Scottish prick in a fast car?"

Clara frowned and took a brief sip of her coffee. "Isn't _'jag'_ another word for _'prick?'"_

"Of _course!"_ The Doctor exclaimed, dropping his fork on his plate with a loud clang _._ He promptly winced as a jolt of pain shot through his wrist. "Jag as in Jaguar! Blimey, that's clever."

"Not exactly my train of thought," Clara said, nudging the bag of peas closer to him. "But whatever suits you."

David peered over the top of his glasses and filled in the corresponding letters. "Brilliant. Thank you, Clara."

The Doctor leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead, the gesture so quick and unanticipated that she hadn't the time to formally react. His green eyes twinkled with pride as he announced to the table, "She memorizes the answers to Trivial Pursuit questions."

Guffawing, Clara swiped a grape from his plate and popped it into her mouth. "I also have a degree in English. Though I do consider my mastery at Trivial Pursuit a note-worthy achievement."

Her breakfast arrived not a moment later, the young writer thanking Emma as she picked up her fork and dug in. Clara hadn't realized how much she needed a home-cooked meal until now, the culmination of savory and sweet lingering on her tongue with every bite. It was heavenly.

"So, have you got any plans for today?" the woman asked as she came and sat down. Clara pretended not to notice The Doctor's pressing stare against her cheek as she nodded and wiped her mouth with her napkin. Optimism was the only way she would get through today. Even if it meant omitting the importance of the interview she would be missing.

"Well, seeming as though we'll be staying here longer than anticipated, I tried to coming up with things to do," the young writer said as cheerily as she could, recalling the research she had conducted earlier that morning. "For one, we could go to Hamlin Lake Park, get our steps in. There's also a quaint coffee joint called the Country Porch, or—! If you fancy a day trip, I hear Kinzua Sky Walk is lovely this time of year. I read that there's a section made of only glass, so if you look down, you can see the ravine below. Which, come to think of it, is only a little bit terrifying."

She stopped her rambling to catch her breath, her audience blinking back at her with stunned expressions.

"What?" she asked them, fork poised in mid-air. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Emma said a second too soon. "It's just...I didn't know anyone actually read those brochures I put out on the front desk."

"You've been here less than twenty-four hours and you're already capable of giving tours," remarked David. Meanwhile, The Doctor's green eyes had returned to her, his stare now pleading. She merely shook her head.

"Well, I have to keep myself occupied somehow. Anything is better than making that phone call to Wayfarer Industries and telling them that I can't make it today," she admitted with a pained laugh. "The moment I do is the moment it's really over. And I don't know if I'm ready for that yet."

Emma reached across the table for her hand. The four of them remained quiet for a moment, chatter from the dining room cushioning the silence. They might not have known one another for that long, but in that moment, a sense of understanding resonated between them. Because at one point or another, all of them knew what it felt like when plans— _important_ plans—didn't work out.

"What if...you _didn't_ have to make that call?" The Doctor said abruptly.

Clara lifted her head, confusion clear as day on her face. "What?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, you see. I put up a rather, erm, compelling argument—"

"That he did," David input.

"...in favor of us making it to New York," The Doctor finished, watching as the young writer's expression went from puzzled to astonished to slightly vexed. He raised his hands to defend himself. "And before you go on saying that I'm mad—!"

"Oh, I think we're far past that," she breathed in disbelief.

David was paged not a second later, the cheery jingle a stark contrast to the tension now forming in the room. Seeing this as a prime opportunity to give the two some privacy, Emma retrieved a pitcher of water for the guests and ushered the family physician out into the dining room. Clara sighed, shooting The Doctor a grave look before asking, "What on earth are you _thinking?"_

"You're better. _I'm_ better. David cleared me! I did everything he told me to do—well, except touch my toes. But I'll tackle that another day."

"Doctor, we've discussed this already. I don't feel comfortable traveling having not fully recovered yet. I already made that mistake once and I'm not making it again."

"But I made a _promise_ to you—"

"You didn't promise me a thing _,"_ she reassured him. Taking his uninjured hand, she looked at him sternly, and said, "You are not responsible for what happens today. I am so grateful for what you've done for me Doctor, but please don't blame yourself for this. Nobody should have to carry that kind of guilt."

He quieted suddenly, turning away. He was certain that she could read every emotion on his face. How she was able to do so in such a short amount of time was unbeknownst to him.

"I can't help it," he admitted with a frustrated breath. "I can't help but feel as if I've hurt you in some way."

Clara scoffed, her lips curving into an amused smile. "Are you kidding me? Doctor, I've never felt more like _myself_ than I am with you. You make things look easy; you reach for things like they're possible. Ever since my mum passed away, I haven't returned to that way of thinking. You've reminded me that the world isn't as bloody terrifying as I once saw it."

Despite himself, he laughed at that. She'd hoped he would.

"I am _fine._ Plans change. I can't count on everything in my life working out the way I wanted it to, but I _can_ count on it working the way that it should." Eyes softening, she added, "But I don't want to be the one keeping you here, either. If you want to drive up to New York this afternoon, then you should. You deserve to see Amy and Rory, and they deserve to see you."

"What, and leave you here? You know I would never do that, Clara. We're in this together."

"I know," she said. Her hands retreated back into her lap, fingers twisting nervously at her mother's silver band. "I know."

They hadn't meant to put the other in such difficult positions. For one, The Doctor was not, under any circumstances, leaving this town without her. And Clara was firmly intent on staying put, for reasons he couldn't completely understand. Yes, they'd both lost about a year's worth of sleep in the span of two days. But judging by her extensive research on a town that was merely a street on a hill, she was clearly willing to leave the house. It didn't sit well with him.

This was the woman who'd held her ground while having a bullet aimed between her eyes. This was the woman who'd insisted they keep going even when her well-being was at stake. Why now was she so reluctant to leave?

"Hang on," he said, narrowing his gaze. "This isn't about bed-rest at all, is it?"

"Of course it is," she replied, a little more quickly than she'd have liked. "I told you, I don't feel ready to travel to another state."

"You don't feel ready to travel? Or you don't feel ready... _period?_ "

Her face blanched as soon as the words fell from his mouth. The Doctor's eyes softened.

"Clara, I think the world of you. You know I do. Blimey, I thought it was impossible to fall in love with someone as quickly as I did with you."

She paused. "You...you're in love with me?"

"You sound surprised," he chuckled, reaching up to cup her cheek. "Yes, Clara Oswald. I am positively sure that I'm in love with you. That said, I'm only saying these things out of love."

She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "God, okay."

"I know you're recovering, and I'm sorry that you are in the first place. But I don't think that's the reason you don't want to go." Hesitating a moment, he lifted her injured elbow, running a gentle thumb over the bandage. "You shouldn't have to use this as an excuse for not taking that interview. You shouldn't have to miss out on opportunities because you're scared. What kind of a person would I be to you if I let you do that?"

It would've been easier to deny it, to deflect his accusation with another argument. But it wouldn't be enough to convince him. In fact, as The Doctor studied her carefully, she wasn't sure she could convince herself anymore. She'd spent years taking the easy route, blaming her faults on parts of herself she believed couldn't be changed. Her reserved nature was due to the loss she had endured as a teenager. Her refusal to sleep was a product of the lifestyle she chose. Were those valid justifications, or had they turned into excuses? Denying her fear was always the easy part. It was owning up to it that was the most difficult.

Which is why, instead of actually admitting that, she blurted, "I don't have any clothes."

The Doctor blinked back in surprise. "Is that why you don't want to go to your interview today? Because you don't have any _clothes?"_

"Yes. I mean, no. No as in that's not the only reason, but yes as in...you're right. I am scared. Because a part of me still thinks the world is bloody terrifying, and I just realized that all of my clothes are being shipped to New York. I've only got this jumper, which I'm pretty sure is two sizes too large."

Lips twitching into a smile, The Doctor let out an amused breath before drawling out, "You're truly something else, Clara Oswald."

"...thank you?" It was hard to meet his stare without the heat rushing towards her face. "Seriously, though. What am I going to do? I didn't even think to pack a spare change of clothes."

"I've got a solution for that," Emma chimed in as soon as she entered the kitchen, several empty plates balanced on her arms. "Sorry, sorry—I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear!"

Clara only nodded absentmindedly, her gaze falling to her stack of half-eaten pancakes. She couldn't imagine the entire course of one's life being decided in a day, or in her case, a matter of hours. She couldn't envision sitting before the CEO of Wayfarer Industries in clothes she had yet to buy. This wasn't the way things were supposed to play out; she was supposed to have time to prepare, plan an outfit, and soak in a bath. But then again, when had life ever lived up to her expectations?

"Oh my stars," she breathed. "I'm going to that interview, aren't I?"

The flutter of excitement that bloomed in her chest was answer enough. Because while life may have never lived up to her expectations, it always found a way of exceeding them. Time and time again. The reassuring smiles she received from the people around her were proof of that.

* * *

"What about this one?" David asked from behind the rack. He parted the curtains of patterned dresses and corduroy pants to offer Clara a suit, which held an uncanny resemblance to the one he was wearing earlier. "The stripes will make you look taller."

She furrowed her brow. "What's wrong with my height?"

"Five-foot-one is a perfectly capable height!" he argued. "It's John that's the anomaly."

"Oi!" The Doctor snapped, poking his head out from around the aisle. Tufts of his fringe stuck out beneath the rim of a fez. "You're a fine one to talk! Six-foot-one and _pinstripes_ —you're a walking optical illusion!"

"Careful now. Shall I immobilize your other wrist?"

The Doctor glared at him, readjusting the hat with as much dignity as he could with the bag of frozen vegetables strapped onto him like a watch. He'd never been to a charity shop before, but was enamored by the potential history behind every article of clothing he laid eyes on. From a wide-brimmed Stetson to a pair of brainy-looking spectacles, it wasn't surprising that he'd garnered more in his shopping basket than Clara and David combined.

"I love Dr. Docherty, I really do," Emma whispered in her ear as she sifted through a bin of blouses. "But pay no heed to his advice. His wife does all the shopping for him."

"I heard that! I'll have you know I bought this t-shirt myself at The Proclaimers' 1994 tour—what a night that was! Don't remember half of it."

It was odd enough that facets of Dr. Docherty's personality were reflected in the male protagonist of the book she'd been reading, his uncanny wit and august sense of style almost parallel to that of the fictional character's. But it was even stranger that he was now handing her outfits in a charity shop as if he'd known her for years now. She briefly remembered the conversation she had with Rose in the murky waters of her own dream.

_"Next time, can I get your alien boyfriend instead? He's much less straightforward than you are."_

Clara stifled a laugh. The irony of it all was too impossible for her to comprehend.

Returning to her conversation with Emma, she whispered back, "Don't worry. I've had my fair share of eccentric fashion choices with this one over here." Cocking her head to the right, the two women turned to spectate The Doctor admiring himself in the mirror, a monocle on his left eye. "I'll be surprised if we make it out of here at all."

After minutes of searching, Emma dug out a white blouse with a beaded collar from the bottom of the clearance bins. Holding it up to the young writer's petite frame, she nodded her head in approval. "It's got a few wrinkles, but nothing a bit of spray can't fix."

"As long as the bandages are hidden, I'm all for it," Clara agreed, taking the button-up and draping it over an arm. "I don't need the first question they ask me to be if I engage in some sort of mixed martial arts."

"You'd certainly leave an impression on them if you did."

They paired their find with an intricately threaded black-and-white blazer and a sharp pair of mid-rise slacks, the outfit itself totaling to just under thirty dollars. Inspecting her reflection in the grimy mirror of the fitting room, Clara stuck her hands into the pockets and beamed. It wasn't what she'd planned, but somehow, it was better. The Doctor seemed to think so, too.

"By god," he breathed when she pulled back the curtain, his arm stuck in the sleeve of another tweed coat. "Is it strange that I'm ridiculously attracted to you in business casual?"

They left the charity shop with armfuls of bags in tow, David leading the way as he gave the two visitors a tour of the sparsely-populated borough. From the ornate manors of the downtown district to the rundown businesses lining main street, the family physician always had a story to tell about each and every location they passed.

"Is that your practice?" The Doctor asked, pointing to a ramshackle office perched along an uphill street. The words _'SMETHPORT MEDICAL ASSOCIATES'_ whispered from a sign staked into the grass, the painted letters bleached from the sun. David nodded.

"There she is," he announced proudly. "Nothing much, but she'll do until next year."

"Next year?" Clara asked. "What happens next year?"

"This town can't afford to keep their own doctor's office afloat," Emma supplied mournfully, squinting up at the place as if it were already disappearing. "By next September, the closest place you can go to get a flu shot will be the hospital in Bradford."

"That's terrible," the young writer murmured.

"And you're sure there's nothing you can do to save it?" The Doctor asked, his face adopting a deep frown.

"We've already requested St. Elizabeth's parish to collect monthly donations on our behalf, but insurance has increased massively this past month," David explained. Clara could suddenly see the distress settled into the lines on his face. Not only was he a doctor responsible for the lives of an entire town, but a businessman and father, too. Carrying all of that weight on his shoulders must exhaust him. And yet he was kind enough to provide care for two strangers in the dead of night.

"Anyway, enough about finances! They're a direct route to grey hairs, so do allow me to maintain my youth—or what's left of it, that is," David said with a cheeky wink. "Still want to stop by the Country Porch on our way home, Clara? If we speed-walk, we might be able to catch one of their blueberry scones."

Half an hour later, Clara nibbled on the buttery delicacy and watched as The Doctor tried to fit his new belongings into his backpack. ( _"The tag said it was 'bigger on the inside!' Bigger on the inside, my arse."_ ) She was sitting cross-legged on the bed they'd shared the night before, a series of potential interview questions written on the notebook in her lap. It bothered her to no end that she couldn't open her laptop to search up a few more.

"You have that look on your face," she told The Doctor without looking up from her questions.

"What look?"

"That look you have when you're planning something clever. Is this about David's family practice? You've been quiet ever since he told us about it."

He dropped the tweed coat he'd been attempting to fold for the past several minutes. "I just can't accept the fact that I'm going to go on to residency knowing he won't even have a place to work next year. I've always assumed physicians had secured jobs, but you could tell that he loves that practice. This town is a home to very few, yet important people; they deserve a doctor they can depend upon."

"I agree," Clara nodded, taking the coat and folding it with minimal effort. Stuffing it into the compartment and wrestling the zipper closed, she extended the backpack out to him and asked, "So what are you going to do about it?"

A smile broke out onto his face, like the sun did on a cloudy day. It was as if he'd finally found the answer to a question he'd been asking himself for years.

He merely shrugged. "The only thing I _can_ do."

* * *

"I rang up your friend—Ilene, was it? Told her I'd repair the motorbike in three days, tops. She said she'd pick it up on her way to Princeton," Alan said upon entering the kitchen. "She sends you her best, but wasn't surprised when I told her what had happened to you. Should I be worried?"

"Best not to," Clara replied. "Ilene was our car mechanic when we broke down in Ohio. I doubt we came across as the most reliable drivers."

"Look at you, abandoning vehicles across the United States," David remarked with an arched eyebrow. "Alan, are you sure you aren't harboring fugitives?"

Clara chortled. "Funnily enough, that's not the first time someone's asked that."

"Okay, I packed iced teas and sandwiches in the convertible, and the GPS is set for New York," Emma announced, clapping her hands together. "Is everyone ready to go?"

"Almost!" The Doctor's footsteps clamored down the staircase as he burst into the kitchen, his sunglasses askew on the bridge of his nose. "Emma, I know you told me not to, but I paid the front desk for the guest room. Couldn't help myself. And David, this is for you. Don't open it until I'm gone." He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and extended it out to the physician, who beheld the offering with a stunned expression before taking it.

"Well, what are we waiting for, Christmas?" The Doctor snapped suddenly. "We've got a city to take by storm!"

Following the young man out into the driveway, the group packed their belongings into the Palmer's automobile and exchanged their goodbyes with David, who would be staying behind to attend to the calls of his patients. He embraced The Doctor briefly before holding up the envelope, lips pursed into a slight frown.

"I have a feeling that I know what's in this envelope, John. And I'm tempted to give it back to you."

"Don't," The Doctor insisted, his tone firm. "Consider it a thank-you. You've ensured my hand's continued attachment to the rest of my arm."

"Be careful out there. I don't need you coming back here to see me," David joked. "Keep him in line, won't you Clara?"

"On it," the young writer said as she approached, smiling when he pressed a kiss on the back of her hand. The hardest part about meeting people was knowing she'd have to say goodbye to them. No matter how many times she'd done it already. "Genevieve is lucky to have you as a father."

"Thank you. I appreciate that," he replied with sincerity. "Let me know how the interview goes."

"I will," she promised him, turning towards the car. It wasn't until she wrenched the door open that she remembered. "Oh, and David?"

"Yes?"

"Just out of curiosity, what does your wife do?"

He shot her a baffled, if not amused, smile. It didn't make the pride that shone in his eyes any less noticeable.

"She's a writer."

* * *

_David,_

_You might be wondering if I robbed a bank on your behalf. I swear, I didn't. The amount written comes from the remaining profit of my parents' business I sold a few years ago. People said I gained a financial windfall, but I am in no need of a windfall more so an opportunity to make it purposeful. I hope it will be enough to keep the doors of your practice open for longer, and that I'll grow to be half a good a doctor as you are in the near future._ _  
_

_Best regards,_

_John Smith_


	17. Marcus Aurelius

New York City looked nothing like it did in the movies.

The aerial shot of Lady Liberty surrounded by Jersey waters, the hopeful protagonist strutting down the streets with a coffee in hand—that was a polished illusion compared to the real thing. Clara was fascinated by the difference. If artists, idealists, and natural-borne leaders were challenged to fit as much as they could into a box, that box would be New York City. It was the only way she could describe the buttery scents from every street vendor they passed, the blinding bulbs of the Broadway marquees, the way every detail demanded her full and utmost attention. It was chaotic. But the city pulled it off beautifully.

Parking was hell, but Clara figured as much. When she stepped out of the four-story garage with her backpack on her shoulders, the sound of blaring sirens and oncoming traffic rushed to greet her. Stretching, she had to crane her neck just to see the blue sky.

"Well?" The Doctor asked, smiling wide. He might as well have presented the city to her on a silver platter. "Is it everything you dreamed it would be?"

"No," she admitted, shaking her head. She didn't know whether to feel relieved or overwhelmed. "No I don't think any dream could top this."

Alan drew himself beside the two travelers, counting his change. "Seven-fifty to sit your car between two bloody lines! God, these people are downright mercenary."

"You could've just dropped us off at the building, would've saved you the money," Clara said, her brow creasing with apology. He shooed her words away with a hand.

"It's only fitting we see you two off, we've come all this way," Emma reassured her from behind them.

"The noise might be hell, but the pizza is heavenly," Alan conceded. "Shall we be on our way?"

If Clara thought London's congestion was bothersome, then New York in the summer was insufferable. Clara could barely manage a crosswalk without ramming into a shoulder or two, much less peer above the heads of the relentless crowd. Latching onto The Doctor's arm as he belligerently paved a path for them, she lifted his uninjured wrist to check the time. _5:47._ Thirteen minutes until her interview with Wayfarer Industries. Thirteen minutes until there would be a clear divide between success and failure.

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" she asked The Doctor, squinting at the map she'd procured from his phone. He flashed her an overly-confident grin, the kind that only elicited more concern.

" _Pfft,_ of course I know where we're going! I've been here countless times before. New Year's Day, 2011. St. Patrick's in 2014—that was a doozy. I know this place like the back of my hand!"

"Then why have we passed that Elvis impersonator twice already?"

He stopped in his tracks, taking a look around before realizing that she was right. "I'm pretty sure that's a _different_ Elvis impersonator. They're all astonishingly good."

"Doctor it's nearly six o'clock! I don't have time to be running around in circles."

"John! Clara!" Alan hollered at them from a few paces back. He gestured towards his left. "Wayfarer Industries is down this way!"

The Doctor frowned.

"Back of your hand, eh?" the young writer teased, grabbing his hand and yanking him through the throng with a newfound determination. He yelped in protest—he was usually on the opposite end of this dynamic, but her infectious energy was enough for him to submit to her impressive change of pace.

This is what they had been running towards for the past forty-eight hours. This is when the woman he'd met in the terminals of San Francisco International Airport would finally get the chance to prove herself. The Doctor found it hard to believe they'd actually made it.

He hadn't meant to follow her into Espresso Express Sunday night. In fact, The Doctor was on direct route to the car rental lot after his flight got cancelled, tenacity boiling in his veins. If he missed _another_ one of Amelia's birthdays, he'd never forgive himself. Not because he already paid for her present and a flight back, but because his absence made him feel like a rubbish friend. His return to the Big Apple was already long overdue; he didn't have the time for distraction in the captivating young writer.

Which is why, when he recognized her in the café window, it took his every ounce of self-control not to wave like a madman. _You were just going. Stop noticing. Not staying, going._

There was a stubborn perseverance in her warm, brown eyes. The speed at which she typed made it look as if she wanted to sear straight through the keyboard. She probably had the brains to know that traveling with a complete stranger was an extreme, if not unwise, leap of faith. She would probably never agree to it, anyways.

The Doctor would've peeled himself from the café window if not for Amelia's words, turned up in his mind like an old friend from out of the blue. They were the exact words she'd written to him the day of her and Rory's big move to New York.

_Above all else, know that we will love you always. Sometimes I do worry about you, though. I think once we're gone, you won't want to stay in London for long, and you might be alone, which you never should be. Don't be alone, Doctor._

He thought it was silly that he received a letter when he wasn't the one going away. But perhaps he needed to be reminded of those words. Perhaps now was when he needed them most.

It took his every ounce of self-control not to wave at the stranger like a madman. So it wasn't surprising when he flung open the café door and marched up to the counter, ordering beverages for two. If he were to take a chance on New York, he thought, then he had no reason not to take a chance on her, too.

Wayfarer Industries was a class act of a building that reached forty stories high. It was not a conventional skyscraper; fragments of certain floors seemed to jut out of the face of the building, the illusion so captivating that Clara grew tempted to reach out and push them back into place. Sharp, white light poured through the windows, the glass occasionally punctuated by tints of red, blue, and yellow. She suddenly wondered what it would look like at night.

"I suppose this is where we leave you," Emma mused, tilting her head back to get a good look at the place. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I dunno. Is it normal that I can _hear_ my heartbeat?" Clara said with a laugh, though the question remained a valid one. Pushing aside the thought, she asked, "Where are you and Alan off to?"

"There's this place called Little Italy down by the New Amsterdam. It's a tradition of ours whenever we drive here," she replied. "Then it's back to the inn to get a head start on tomorrow's breakfast. And hearing my husband tinker with the motorcycle for hours on end."

Clara grimaced. "Our bad. I had my doubts, but I didn't think we'd actually crash it."

"Oh, no need to apologize! Alan's been in love with that kind of stuff for years now. It keeps him young." She snorted. "And what about you and John? Are you two planning on keeping in touch after all this is over?"

The question was enough to sober her from the high she'd reached since arriving here. Turning towards The Doctor, she saw him squatting on the sidewalk, trying to meet the eye-level of a pigeon. Alan observed him passively a few meters away. A sad sort of smile crept onto Clara's face. This entire road trip had led up to this point, to New York City. Now that they'd made it, now that she was finally standing before the revolving doors she'd only seen in photographs, she couldn't help but feel as if it'd ended too soon. Out of all the goodbyes she had to say on this trip, she wasn't so sure she could handle saying goodbye to him.

"Clara—look! I think he's expecting me to feed him," he cried, pointing at the bird as if it were newly appointed comrade of his. "Are pigeon lectures still on the table? I must say, I had my doubts, but you have a right way of thinking. We could bird-watch! I'd a great bird-watcher…"

"What's wrong?" Emma asked upon seeing her expression dim. Clara merely shook her head, maintaining a soft smile as The Doctor continued to ramble.

"I just realized something I wish I hadn't."

"What did you realize?"

The Doctor, whose fashion choices were cut from a twentieth-century catalogue. Whose way of thinking was so reckless and bold that you'd think he was unbreakable. He had intelligence that exceeded his years and managed to carry it with a child-like smile on his face. Did everyone he meet see him in such a light? Or was Clara simply one of the few people to take a closer look?

"That everything ends."

Emma frowned, not entirely convinced.

"No. Not everything," she disagreed, folding her arms across her chest. "Not love. Not always."

Clara's eyes widened to saucers as she turned towards the woman, who merely shrugged her shoulders in apology.

"I overheard you two talking in the kitchen this morning," she confessed. "Allow me to be frank for a moment, Clara. When I saw the look on your face after John had awoken, it was hard for me to believe you'd only known each other for two days."

"Feels like longer," she murmured.

"Which is what it _should_ feel like. I don't mean to prod—only you and John have the right to that decision—but I knew Alan for years before telling him how I felt. And if there's anything I regret, it's not telling him sooner. Because as it turns out, we both had the same idea." Her face widened with a smile. "So just…hold on to what's good, Clara. Whatever that is to you."

The young writer pulled Emma into a firm embrace shortly afterwards, thanking her repeatedly until her own words ran dry. She and The Doctor owed their lives to these people. She couldn't imagine where they'd be if not for Emma's concern, for her willingness to take them in without a moment's hesitation. A part of her imagined what it would be like had she awoken without her. Lying in the grass, her arms outstretched. The Doctor's still body next to hers. The mere thought of it sent an unwanted chill up her spine.

Her mother's words resonated with her once more.

_It doesn't matter where you are, in a jungle or the desert or the moon. However lost you may feel, you'll never really be lost. Not really. Because I will always be here, and I will always come and find you. Every single time._

For the first time in eight years, Clara began to believe in them again.

"Do you want to know what Alan told me?" The Doctor asked her as they bid farewell to the couple, watching as they slowly merged into the New York City crowd. Waving until she couldn't see them anymore, Clara fell back on her heels and peered up at him with a raised eyebrow. "First, he gave me a friendly reprimand. Said that at this rate, I wouldn't make it out of the country alive."

"Fair warning."

"Second, he told me to never forget this. I told him he wouldn't have to worry about that one. Even when I'm old, grey, and—God forbid— _bedridden_ —"

"You? Never in a million years."

"—I'll always remember," he finished, smiling at her like no one else deserved it. Clara was quick to memorize every facet of his expression—from that bittersweet look in his eye to the smirk on his lips—for she was sure that no one would ever look at her like that again. Either that, or she didn't want anyone _else_ to.

They gazed up at the building for a good while, the silence between them conveying far more than anything they could've said. The Doctor didn't like endings. It felt selfish of him to admit, but he wished they'd gotten lost more often. Not to take away from this moment, but to augment to the ones they'd already shared. Two days simply wasn't enough in the company of Clara Oswald. But he knew what she came here for; it was standing right in front of her. Knowing he played a small part of this gigantic orchestration of hers was already enough.

Checking the inside of his wrist, he said, "Five fifty-five. Do you want another minute?"

"No," Clara replied, her fingers pressed against her mother's ring. Letting go of the precious heirloom, she took a deep breath, and said, "I think I'm ready."

The receptionist—a woman named Martha with a firm handshake and kind eyes—signed Clara in and offered to keep their bags in the back before escorting them to the elevators. Aside from a brief introduction, the young writer said little, for it became difficult to make small talk when her heartbeat was now racing. Detecting her own panic before it could strengthen, she interlaced her fingers with The Doctor's and squeezed twice. He returned the gesture and raised the back of her palm to his lips so naturally that she was stunned he hadn't done it several times before. _You've got this._

"This is Mrs. Tasha Lem's office; she will be the one conducting your interview this afternoon," Martha said as they stepped out onto the twenty-first floor. It was an ornately decorated hallway, with acoustic panels of every color lining the spotless ivory walls. A pair of deep-seat chairs flanked a frosted doorway, a shadowed figure sitting behind the glass. "Your husband can remain in this waiting area while the interview's being conducted."

Far too nervous to even hear Martha, Clara shot her a tight-lipped smile in thanks. Nodding, the receptionist promised it would only take a moment to endorse her. She rapped twice on the door and disappeared not a second later.

"Mrs. Lem, Clara Oswald is here to speak with you."

There was a brief respite. The rustling of papers. "Who?"

"Miss Clara Oswald, ma'am. She's seeking the partnership from us."

"Ah, yes. I do recognize the name now." Clara herself found it tough to differentiate this woman's intrigue from her indifference. "Have you forwarded me the final draft for our September release?"

"No, ma'am," Martha replied. "I'm still waiting on the copy-edits from our senior staff…"

Seizing the few seconds she had left, Clara turned towards The Doctor and pulled him into a crushing embrace. He held her tight and buried his head into her shoulder, the steadiness of his breaths a stark contrast to the shakiness of her own.

"Hey," he murmured into her ear, quietly enough so that the two women on the other side of the door wouldn't hear as he began to speak-sing. _"I walk along the avenue, I never thought I'd meet a girl like you…meet a girl like you…"_

A laugh escaped her lips, the image of them driving across the Tower Bridge of West Sacramento calming her nerves, if only for a moment. It felt like forever ago, back when neither of them had the faintest idea as to what they were getting themselves into. Or what they would mean to each other by the end of it. The Doctor continued.

_"With auburn hair and tawny eyes, the kind of eyes that hypnotize me through…you hypnotize me through…"_

Her voice was shaky and undoubtedly off-tune, but mattered little to her as she sang. _"And I ran, I ran so far away…"_

Unable to finish without smiling like an idiot, Clara pulled away from him just in time for Martha to reappear in the doorway. "Ready?"

When the calendar invite for the Wayfarer interview appeared in her inbox weeks ago, she thought it was the only chance she had to prove herself. That was before she'd climbed aboard the TARDIS. Before she'd baked the perfect soufflé, danced to The Doctor's Roy Orbison impression, and lost herself in her thoughts more times than she did on the road. To her, those moments—and the people she shared them with—held more merit than any partnership or raise. Funny how two days had been enough to change her perspective.

Whatever happened now would never take away from the triumph of these past two days. With that in mind, Clara finally felt the dread subside and bravery begin to take hold. Giving The Doctor a collected smile, she straightened her blazer, lifted her chin, and walked inside.

* * *

"So you're the young woman who has been cluttering my inbox?" Tasha Lem asked by way of greeting.

It took Clara a great deal of restraint not to wrench the door back open and run out. Lips forming a polite smile, she refused to overanalyze the woman's tone of voice and instead gathered the confidence to strengthen her own.

"I prefer to keep my lines of communication open, yes," she replied coolly, though her hands began to numb at the fingertips. She clasped them behind her back.

The CEO of Wayfarer Industries lifted the spectacles from the bridge of her nose, piercing grey eyes examining her every feature. Clara didn't doubt this woman had the ability to see right through her—past the composure and wit, the second-hand clothes and layers of makeup. She held in her distress like she would her own breath.

"You're quicker than I anticipated," Tasha said. It didn't sound like a compliment. "Clever."

"I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today, Mrs. Lem," she replied in attempts to divert the conversation. "You must have a rather busy schedule."

"How touching, you understand the concept of running a multi-million dollar company." Maintaining eye contact with the young writer, she closed a file folder on her desk and placed it aside. "Well? Do sit down, unless you expect me to interview you from across the room."

Doing as she was told, Clara approached the desk and perched herself on the edge of a white leather wingback. Tasha was a woman who wielded intimidation like a sword. Dressed in a red ensemble with a sharp bateau neckline, she managed to quicken Clara's pulse with her every movement. If she'd known that _this_ was the woman she was writing to months ago, she likely wouldn't have sent the email at all out of pure, unadulterated fear.

"Martha faxed me your résumé," she drawled, retrieving the document from beneath a stack of travel magazines. "Your blog, _'101 Places to See,'_ was named one of the top domains in lifestyle journalism by The Expeditioner. Why do you think that is?"

The young writer suppressed a smile. She'd practiced this.

"Well, I began publishing on the site when I was sixteen years old. My mother had this travel guide she bought at a charity shop, called _'101 Places to See_.' It was all the destinations she wanted to visit but never got the opportunity to. She passed away due to illness that year.

I've explicitly stated that a part of the reason I travel is because my mum never got around to it. There are times when I wish she were there with me, and I don't shy away from mentioning that in my writing. So to answer your question, I think there's a good deal of heart that goes into my work, and people have resonated with it for eight years now. There's this saying that goes: _'People don't buy what you do, but why you do it,"_ and I think that rings true in this case."

"And do you see yourself upholding your current position for another eight years? How do you expect to maintain such high blog traffic?"

"Ideally, I never want to stop writing, or traveling, for that matter. I understand that circumstances may arise where the latter might not be possible—a secondary job, or a family—but I can use another approach during that time. Recommend destinations, offer advice for first-time travelers."

"So you hope to settle in the near future? When so much of your pre-established career advocates doing the exact opposite?"

"I can assure you, I am not against the idea. The purpose of _'101 Places to See'_ is to show people what's out there, to inspire others to adopt perspectives they never even knew existed. I believe it's important—if not necessary—to travel before settling down."

Tasha's blasé expression was enough to make Clara's confidence splinter at the edges. Would she make any credible impression on this woman? Or would every word she spoke be flung back in her face? Her mind racing, the young woman tried to review her rehearsed responses for contradictions or other points of contention.

"Are we the first company you've sought sponsorship from, Miss Oswald?" she asked.

"Yes."

"So you have no prior experience with business partnerships," she concluded, turning over the résumé with a manicured hand. "And you assumed that Wayfarer Industries—one of the highest-ranking travel media companies to-date—would be a good starting point?"

Clara faltered. Tasha seemed to notice, because her eyes gleamed with a power she'd been working towards this entire time. _Superiority._ The young writer had been quick, attentive, and on her feet ever since she walked through the door. And something told her that her interviewer preferred it to be otherwise.

"You're hoping I find it ambitious that you chose to correspond with me in the first place, but I'm afraid I find it a bit naïve," Tasha said, her voice devoid of any sympathy. "Why should I partner with you, a twenty-something still high off of teenage amusement, rather than, say—an experienced journalist with no intention of settling down, having children, or doing anything that would hinder the growth of their career?"

Her blatant assumptions were like a blow to the chest. _Naïve? High off of teenage amusement?_ Writing was the only thing she could bring herself to do after her mum died; in many ways, it was her saving grace. What right did this woman have to pass it off as a mere phase?

"Wayfarer Industries could benefit from younger audiences," she answered. Carefully. Competently. "Your company's website and printed publication has a majority demographic of ages thirty-five to forty-five. You say that a domestic life hinders the growth of one's career, and yet the people who are most likely to have one are the ones keeping your content relevant. I may be a twenty-something, Mrs. Lem, but when I attend an interview, I do my research."

Whether she was irritated or impressed, it didn't register on the woman's face. Instead, she asked, "And you are confident that you are the right person to bring in such an audience?"

"Call me ambitious, but I think I am."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I think these past eight years of my life could lead to something special," Clara said, her voice rising with fervor. "Because there are days when I don't sleep a wink because of a red-eye, or a deadline, or agonizing writer's block. Because I did _not_ entrust in a doctor to drive me forty-eight hours across the United States to miss out on an opportunity like this."

Tasha quieted. Clara struggled to catch her breath. Was it getting hotter in here? She readjusted her blazer and cleared her throat before speaking again.

"My only intention in coming here today is to know if I even have a chance. If I do, then I'd be more than happy to work with you. If not, then please tell me. Because this is all I've been thinking about for the past several weeks, and I'd just like to know."

Silence hovered between them for several seconds. Though no amount of time could prepare the young writer for what Tasha asked next.

"Are you referring to the young man outside my office?"

Clara blinked. That wasn't at all the point she was trying to make.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The doctor who drove you forty-eight hours across the United States," she repeated, pointing her pen towards the door. "That young man outside my office, is that him?"

"Yes. It is," she replied, unsure of why Tasha felt the need to bring The Doctor into this at all. "My flight from San Francisco to New York was cancelled Sunday night, and we both needed to be here by Wednesday. We thought it was reasonable that we travel together."

"So prior to Sunday night, he was but a stranger to you?"

To agree with this woman without providing any context was beyond frustrating, but to do the exact opposite would be dishonest of her. And Clara was certain her facial expression would betray any lie that dared escape her lips.

"Yes, but—"

"Tell me, Miss Oswald, how you would like me to perceive you. Because all I have gathered from this interview is that you are a tenacious young woman with little to no experience in business partnerships or professional journalism. Perhaps a job in creative writing would be better suited for you." She returned Clara's résumé to her drawer with a look of disdain. "Honestly, I find it hard to take you seriously when you walk in here, fresh off a sojourn with pretty young men at your beck and call."

Clara swore something snapped at that very moment. Because not only had a line been severely and horrendously crossed, but the coquettish young woman of Tasha's description was so unlike her actual self that it infuriated her to no possible end.

"Are you judging me?" she asked quietly, though she was hardly intimidated by her anymore.

"This is an interview, is it not? Were you expecting otherwise?"

"How dare you. How _dare_ you," Clara seethed, rising from her chair. "Marcus Aurelius. Roman Emperor. _Stoic_ philosopher—"

"Superlative author. Yes, I'm aware."

"—and the _only_ pin-up I ever had on my wall when I was fifteen. The only one I ever had. I am not sure who you think you're talking to now, Mrs. Lem, but I have never had the _slightest_ interest in sojourns with pretty young men. And for the record, if there was anybody who could balance a healthy domestic and professional life, I can assure you she's standing in front of you right now. So just because my pretty face has turned your head, do _not_ assume that I am so easily distracted."

Tasha's nostrils flared, but the look in her eyes had shifted from a visceral intolerance to a subtle, if not respectful, surprise. It was evident the young writer had made her point clear. There were few things in life she couldn't stand. One of them was being judged or accused of being someone she wasn't. Which is why she had every intention of storming out of the woman's office empty-handed.

Which is why, when Tasha finally spoke again, Clara's jaw nearly fell.

"Would you like the Wayfarer partnership, Miss Oswald?"


	18. A Change of Heart

"What?" Clara asked, regaining her breath. Tasha leaned forwards in her desk chair and propped her chin up with folded hands. There was a conniving look in her smile, the kind that fueled every insult and question she'd fired at the young writer.

"My, I wondered what it'd be like when you lost your temper." She dragged her stare across Clara's petite figure once more. "Good to know our allies are of capable stature. We are in need of people who can stand their ground."

Unsure of what just happened, Clara's eyes darted around the room, as if her answer would appear in writing on the walls. All she saw were framed magazine clippings and photographs of posh business travelers, a crowd she thought she wanted to be a part of at some point in time. It was safe to say that Tasha was not giving her the warmest welcome. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she watched Tasha print out her contract and decided that processing all of this was easier sitting down.

"Now, you need to read this and ask me any questions you may have," Tasha informed her in a perfunctory manner, handing the young writer the contract and a heavy ball-point pen. Too overwhelmed to respond, Clara swallowed whatever idiotic refrain sat on her tongue (such as whether or not Tasha was _absolutely_ certain of this) and began reading. Her focus wore thin as her mind began spinning.

To think that the CEO of Wayfarer Industries judged her based on her temper instead of merit was somewhat off-putting. To think that The Doctor, who was right outside, may have overheard their argument upset her. She didn't want him to think that this was just a momentary fling to her. She didn't want him to consider that at all. Especially when such accusations came from the woman Clara was beginning to dislike.

Eyes scanning the contract at a careless speed, she was about to sign her name until she reached the final paragraph.

_By signing below, I hereby agree that WAYFARER INDUSTRIES, INC._ _holds every right to censor and enhance my work without prior discretion. I understand that any publication for public domain is within rightful ownership of the company, and I waive my right of participating in any third-party business transactions until termination of this contract. All signatures under legal documentation are valid for up to five years.  
_

Clara read it over again, just to be sure.

"So by signing this, I legally forfeit all creative liability for _'101 Places to See?'_ "

Tasha's eyes left her computer screen with a confounded expression, as if surprised the young writer could actually read.

"If that is how you choose to interpret it, yes."

"There is no other way of interpreting it. It says so right here," she said, marking the paper with a dot of dark ink. " _'Wayfarer Industries holds every right to censor and enhance my work without prior discretion.'_ I understand this clearly, do I not, Mrs. Lem? Should I choose to sign my name on the dotted line, I agree to have no say in what I write for my website?"

Her mother's memorial. Her own personal form of escape. Her career for almost eight years now. Gone. Like breath on a mirror.

"You are correct, yes," Tasha breathed, unable to meet her gaze. But Clara refused to stop asking questions until she got all the answers she needed.

"And what exactly does that look like for me?"

It was clear the woman was not attune to addressing such concerns, for she looked from the young writer to the contract in uncertainty. "We will give you the necessary funds to continue traveling. You will receive assignments from our directors of advertising and digital media and fulfill them to the best of your ability, though we have the final say in what is edited and ultimately published. As for your website, it will need to undergo a complete redesign, to better align with the themes of our company."

Mouth agape with incredulity, Clara felt the weight of the contract sink into her lap. The autonomy over her own website was now hovering in the balance between her and the woman behind the desk. It wasn't until that moment in which Clara began to understand the worth of creative liberty—and the consequences of giving it up for five whole years.

"I see the indecision in your eyes. You wonder how on earth others have agreed to such conditions. If they fully understood what they were getting themselves into," Tasha said. She perched her spectacles on the bridge of her nose. "The answer is simple. This is a business, Miss Oswald. Our main priority is not to inspire travel, or satisfy the wants of every aspiring writer we choose to work with. It is to grow, as far and wide as we possibly can.

The writers we foster here at Wayfarer are renowned names in this community. They are personalities with an intelligence and discipline you couldn't even imagine. This is not a decision in which you close the door on your creative liberties, but _open_ yourself up to a field that is ready and waiting for you to join it on the other side."

Tasha leaned forward in her desk. The contract in Clara's lap was now creased from her tight grip.

"So, what do you say? Will it be a _yes_ from you this afternoon, Miss Oswald?"

* * *

The Doctor—despite his efforts to sit still—stood up for the third time in the past twenty minutes. He would not, under any circumstances, press his ear against Tasha Lem's office door, though the thought had crossed his mind once or twice. What were they talking about in there? Was Clara winning the woman over, just as he thought she would? Or had things taken a turn for the worse, making this an unfortunate orchestration of fate?

 _No,_ The Doctor thought, nearly whacking himself in the face for such a notion. This was not one of those times. She deserved that interview. Deserved to take from it whatever the hell she wanted to, whether it be a partnership or otherwise. No matter the outcome, he knew she would gain something invaluable from it. He was sure of that much.

His heart leapt out of his chest when the office door opened and Clara emerged, her lips pulled into a subdued expression. The Doctor raised his eyebrows in anticipation as he approached, wringing his hands in a nervous fret. It wasn't until he drew closer that he could detect the verdict written across her face. His hands fell to his sides.

"They don't deserve you, Clara," he told her, shaking his head sternly. "They are daft not to see how bloody brilliant you'd be working alongside them, and if you for a second think otherwise, then I _swear_ _—_ "

"I turned them down."

He blinked, astounded. Impressed even, if he weren't so confused. "What?"

She handed him the contract she'd refused to sign, unaware she'd taken it in the first place. "I turned them down. I couldn't go through with it. _Why_ couldn't I go through with it?" She paused. "Do you know that feeling when you're just about to drop on a roller-coaster?"

He frowned, eyes lifting from the paper. "Yes."

"Good. Because I've never been on one, but I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like." She sank into one of the deep-seat chairs and pressed her heels into her eyes.

The Doctor flipped the page and turned it upside-down, as if there was an inverted message he couldn't see. He patted his pockets for his spectacles before realizing he'd left them in his backpack downstairs.

"Am I reading this correctly? According to this, _'Wayfarer Industries holds every right to_ _ _censor and enhance__ your _ _work without prior discretion_.'_ " He swiveled on his heel, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "So all of your work, all the rights to _'101 Places to See,'_ would have been turned over to them?"

"Thank god you see it, too. I was beginning to think I made it up. I mean, it was an attractive offer, terms and conditions applied. Tasha spoke about it like she was holding a door open for me, everything I wanted lying on the other end of the threshold. I _saw_ it, Doctor. I saw the raise and the reputation. And I couldn't take it."

"Because you realized it wasn't what you wanted?"

"Because I realized it wasn't worth what I'd have to give up," she replied, trying to locate her sense. " _'101 Places'_ was meant to fill a small part of this massive void _—_ it was always meant to be that. When I write, I like to think I'm writing to my mum. I like to think she hears me, mad as that sounds. And when I looked through that door, at what I'd be gaining from a partnership like this, I saw everything but her. Agreeing to this would take her out of my work completely, when she's been the heart of it since the beginning. And that really, really got to me."

She leaned her head against the wall above the seatback, dark eyes hiding behind a curtain of brown and blonde hair. "Is that silly of me? To not want something because it makes me feel further apart from my already dead mother?"

"To others, maybe," The Doctor replied, tossing the contract aside and occupying the seat beside her. "But to me? Never. Never in a million years."

"But what about all those things you said? About making this trip worth it in the end?"

"Just because you told them no doesn't mean it wasn't worth it. I only said I'd help you get to New York, help you get the career you deserve. And if getting you here means you're one step closer to winning it all, then that's all I could ever hope for."

She snuggled into his shoulder, grazing her nose against the fabric of his tweed coat. The scent of the wind was trapped into the threading, with remnants of his musky cologne. "Perhaps Tasha was right. Perhaps I _am_ meant to write a book or something."

"She said that?"

"I think it was more of an insult than anything."

The tall windows beside them cast slates of golden light across the tiled floor, a coin-sized sun bouncing off the face of the building adjacent to theirs. The two travelers watched the spectrum in awed silence for a moment.

"Do you know something, Clara?" The Doctor asked, placing his hand on hers. He admired the way her fingers splayed against his. "Monday morning, when we were driving in the TARDIS, we were harping on the things that made us so dissimilar. You and your soufflés, me and my cliff dives. Well now, I think we're one and the same."

"Now, that's a shocker." He chuckled.

"No, really! Hear me out. When David told me about his practice closing, it was as if something finally clicked. I have been racking my brain over my parental inheritance for years. I didn't want to give it away to a cause unless I could see my mum and dad doing exactly the same. I wanted it to mean something to them, too," he said, taking a look around them. They would walk away from this building empty-handed but wholeheartedly fulfilled. "So while I'll probably throw myself at impending danger, and you'll be wise enough to warn me first, I guess what I'm trying to say is that we're both just horribly sentimental and picky people."

Eyes widening in astonishment, Clara began to laugh. It wasn't often on this trip she found herself so similar to The Doctor.

"Come on," she prompted, pulling him out of his seat and careening themselves back down the hallway they came from."I'm not the only reason we're here. _You've_ got a party to go to."

"You're coming with me, yes?"

"Well, it's not like I have anywhere else to be," she drawled, shooting him an excited grin over a shoulder. Perhaps they _were_ alike in more ways than one. "And for the record...I think it's safe to say that I'm in love with you, too."

* * *

Amelia Pond and Rory Williams lived in Kensington, a neighborhood centered in the heart of Brooklyn. The houses looked like paint swatches from a home refurbishing depot, peaceful shades of green and blue a balm against the inky sunset behind them. The house The Doctor and Clara were looking for became easy to spot, not because of the balloons tacked onto the mailbox, or the lights strung around the shrubs, but the front door. It was painted a rich shade of royal blue and was the only one of its kind on the entire street.

The two travelers split the fee for the taxicab and waved to their driver as he disappeared down the block, their backpacks straining their neck and shoulders. Clara had taken her blazer off and tied it around her waist, and The Doctor was sweating profusely. Just when they thought nothing else could go wrong, they were caught in a cab with a fast-talking New Yorker and a broken air-conditioner unit. The perfect ending to their cross-country road trip.

"God, that music's loud," The Doctor muttered under his breath, shielding his face from the sun. "Even for a place as noisy as New York City, the Ponds manage to defy all expectations."

"And home owner's regulations. Won't the neighbors mind?"

"Eh, they've lived here four years. Either the neighbors are hearing-impaired, or they've gotten used to them already."

Clara followed him across their manicured lawn and towards the back, where a small gateway led to an open patio adorned with paper lanterns and tables of refreshments. Circles of guests talked animatedly throughout the yard, smiling at one another and sipping their cocktails. The smell of barbecue filled the air. A young man with neatly combed hair and a _'Kiss the Cook'_ apron stood at the grill with a spatula in hand, the red-haired woman next to him peeking hungrily over his shoulder for a look-see. He caught her staring, and they both erupted into laughter.

Amy and Rory. The best friends The Doctor had traveled over three-thousand miles to see. Clara felt her stomach drop. Meeting his parents would've been easier than this, had she the pleasure of meeting them. These were his best mates. The ones that coined his nickname only to be used by those closest to him. In the entire picture of The Doctor's life, Clara was but a mere shadow. A foreign, unannounced, two-day-old shadow.

"Wait," Clara said, falling a few steps behind him. "What if they don't like me?"

"Are you joking? They're gonna love you! Now come on," The Doctor said, taking her arm in his and pulling her along. She dug her heels into the pavement.

"Dear god, that woman is _made_ of legs. That's the most legs on any living human!" she hissed under her breath.

"She's a _woman_ , Clara. She won't bite." He paused to think. "Actually, no, I take that back. I _distinctly_ remember a time when—"

"Doctor?" Amy called from behind the grill. The two travelers, caught in the act of discussing the very woman whose eyes had now grown to saucers, froze in their tracks. "Is that you?"

The Doctor straightened, the question throwing him off-guard. He readjusted his bow-tie out of habit. "Were you expecting anyone else?"

He'd never seen a wider smile on her face. Practically pushing guests aside, Amy made a beeline for her best friend and crashed into his open arms. They both shared a triumphant laughter that only came from two people who couldn't believe they were sharing the same space after years of being apart. The distance between them had felt like an elastic band waiting to snap.

"God, I'm crying. How embarrassing," Amy said when she pulled away, swiping her thumbs beneath her eyes to catch the tears. "You look terrible."

"Is it the dark circles? I haven't slept properly since Sunday. I can't tell if half the people here are real or if I've adopted double-vision."

"Did you get attacked by a rabid animal again?" she asked, poking at his bandaged wrist. "I told you, they're not going to understand a word you say. Your chin is enough to trigger a fight or flight response."

"No, no! Got into a bit of a skirmish with the motorbike and the pavement. Immune system should be kicking in any day now." Her glaring expression told him she'd let it slide for now, but would demand the full story later.

"Well, look who turned up out of the blue," Rory said from behind his wife. His green eyes gleamed in delight as he pulled The Doctor in for a quick embrace. "We didn't think you'd make it in time. How was the commute?"

"Insane." The Doctor shook his head, turning to the young writer next to him to attest. "Clara and I have so much to tell you _—_ "

He halted. The space beside him was empty. Whipping his head around in search of Clara, he spotted her standing a few feet away, hands twisted behind her back. It was clear she didn't want to intrude on what was obviously an important reunion for the three. Better to shrink back and act like she belonged with the rest of the congregation. Hard to do so when three pairs of eyes were now on her.

"Hi," she said with a small wave. It felt like the appropriate thing to do. The Doctor's eyes brightened.

"Clara, meet the Ponds. Ponds...meet Clara," he said, beaming with pride. Two extreme parts of his life were now colliding, and even though one had only entered the picture two days prior, he had no intention of ever forgetting Clara Oswald, lest she held a similar regard for him. The three stared at one another in momentary hesitation and awe of the other.

The young writer was quick to come forward with an outstretched hand. "It's so nice to finally meet you—"

Amy immediately pulled her into a hug, cutting off her words. A mixture of surprise and relief flooded Clara's face, her former anxieties of meeting the couple dissolving into sincere appreciation as she hugged the young woman back.

"Thank you," Amy said, squeezing her tightly. "Thank you for keeping The Doctor alive!"

"So _this_ is the Clara Oswald we've heard so much about," Rory mused, folding his arms across his chest. A look of alarm was directed towards The Doctor at the statement, a look which, when Amy pulled away, was quickly rearranged into one of a cheerier disposition. "Nothing to worry about, we've only heard good things about you."

"I do hope so," Clara said. "The fact that you've heard anything at _all_ is news to me. Word travels fast between you three, doesn't it?"

"When The Doctor permits it," Amy replied with a sly look. "He won't speak a word of what he's doing with whom unless he thinks it important enough to be mentioned."

"With the exception of him inventing a quadricycle in his garage," Rory added.

"Oi! That was one of my life's most brilliant accomplishments, and if you don't consider it as such, I have no choice but to be highly offended."

"A quadricycle is just a deconstructed car with a bell on it, Doctor."

" _O_ -kay!" Amy interjected, extinguishing the argument before it could develop. "Clara, Doctor, I am sure you two have had one hell of a journey, and we want to hear all about it over drinks! As the birthday girl, I hereby commence: backpacks in the kitchen; there's plenty of food laid out; and please, no more talk of quadricycles until I am sufficiently tipsy."

"Look at you, the domestic goddess," The Doctor remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. She shot him a glare before turning on her heel to enter the house.

"If anyone is to fulfill that role, it should be me," Rory defended as The Doctor and Amy made their way towards the back door. He gestured for Clara to fall alongside him, even offering to take her backpack. "Welcome to the Pond house, Miss Oswald. We do hope you enjoy your stay, despite all the bickering. Feel free to contribute to it, if you like."

"Clara!" The Doctor shouted from the kitchen, an argument already brewing in their midst. "I need you to side with me that Queen's _'A Day at the Races'_ is their strongest studio album!"

"In what universe?" Amy fired back. " _'A Night at the Opera'_ is far superior, and my husband agrees with me! Don't you, Rory?"

The calmer of the group observed the budding debate from the safety of the doorway. Rory whispered to Clara, "I personally enjoyed _'Hot Space.'_ But don't let either of them know that."

Stifling a laugh, Clara followed Rory into the kitchen, thankful enough to take up his offer.


	19. From Here On Out

Clara soon discovered that Amy was an agent for a modeling company, and Rory was an emergency room nurse at New York Presbyterian. She also discovered that she _really_ liked fruity cocktails.

It wasn't intentional. She grabbed a glass of what looked to be iced tea and kept the straw between her lips throughout most of her conversations. Sulfurous with a hint of lemon, she enjoyed it so much as to procure a second one within minutes of finishing the first. It wasn't until she laughed rather loudly at one of Rory's puns that The Doctor grew suspicious.

"May I?" he asked, plucking the glass from Clara's hands and taking a sip. The verdict immediately registered on his tongue as he said, "There's alcohol in that, love."

The fact that she was more focused on The Doctor calling her _'love'_ than the presence of alcohol in her system was indication enough.

" _No,_ " she drawled, surprised to find her voice more exaggerated than usual. "It can't be!"

His eyes lit up in astonishment. " _You_ like it!"

"No, no—" she started, swiping the glass from him and staring at its contents with wide eyes. "Oh, god."

"You do, you really like it!" The Doctor beamed.

"I haven't eaten anything since this morning."

"Last time we were at a bar, you ordered a shot of _espresso_. My, how the tables have turned."

"Doctor, I'm serious!" she reprimanded, though a smile played fondly on her lips. She hated herself all the more for it. "I don't fare well with alcohol. I get all soppy and spontaneous; it's not a good look on me."

"That's not true," he promised. "If there's anyone in this room that deserves to unwind, it's you. Anything is okay in moderation. Think of it as your one for the road!"

"My what?"

"Have you not heard that saying?" She shook her head. "One for the road. A final drink—most especially an alcoholic one—before leaving for home. A last hoorah before returning to the mundane predictability of everyday life."

"Well in that case, I think I may need more than one."

She just rejected a lucrative business offer from the company of her dreams. How does one recover from such a move? How could she—as The Doctor said—return to normal life without feeling the need to prove to herself why she did it? Oswin and ' _101 Places to See'_ had been her entire life for eight years. And while she was proud of everything she'd accomplished, she doubted her ability to follow the exact same routine for another eight, despite everything she'd told Tasha Lem. Clara Oswald would never be sixteen again; she needed to venture into new things in order to grow, a process as meaningful as it was scary. The idea that the things she cherished now might be completely different in eight years was terrifying to her.

Which is why, when The Doctor mentioned going home, she cast her eyes downward so he couldn't see the disappointment that lingered there. She soon became aware of every square inch in which her body pressed against his, a culmination of longing and grief swelling in her chest like a balloon. It's cause: the thought of never being able to feel like this again. Sitting next to a man who'd made more of an impression on her in two days than most people did in two years. Being certain that the Wayfarer Partnership was not meant for her. She wanted nothing more than to bottle up that comfort, that _confidence_ , and keep it with her forever.

Clara knew her heart could never _actually_ ache, but that was what it felt like. The Doctor would probably go off on a medical tangent to explain the phenomenon, but instead of asking him about it, she instead craned her neck to look at him, absorbing every detail she could find. The traces of stubble on his jawline. The smile that rested naturally on his face.

The Doctor caught her staring, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks as he asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"How am I looking at you?"

"Like you're concentrating. Have I got something in my teeth?"

"No, no," she told him, dimples deepening on either side of her lips as she smiled. Settling back down again, she took another sip of her drink and said, "You're perfectly fine."

The words of a familiar fictional character resurfaced, the one with blonde hair and suggestive eyes, realistic even in dreams. _"He said so himself. You shouldn't have to miss out on anything just because you're afraid to try something new."_

_Oh, Rose,_ Clara thought to herself in dismay. It was easier to blame the figment of imagination instead of actually blaming herself. She was sure she was about to do it—ask The Doctor the one question she'd been meaning to ask ever since she'd snogged him somewhere in Midwestern America. Resolving on it before she could think twice, she opened her mouth to speak just as Rory cleared his throat from the microphone across the yard.

"May I have everyone's attention please?" Clara swallowed her words faster than she could her own drink. "As per the birthday girl's request, we're about to kick off our karaoke for the night! A few ground rules before we begin..."

She turned to The Doctor in surprise, the two sharing a small laugh from their spot on the porch sofa. "You're not gonna break anything this time, are you?" she asked.

"Depends," he answered, scratching his chin in thought. "If Rory revisits his Bonnie Tyler impression, I may be tempted to."

Clara sang in a low, sultry voice, " _Turn around...every now and then I get a little bit lonely_ —"

"Dear god," The Doctor said with a chuckle. "There's a reason we didn't play it in the TARDIS. I get flashbacks."

"...and _no_ dropping the mic! We don't need another broken windscreen. I'm looking at you, Caesar," Rory continued, trying his best to look stern. "Okay! That is all; I'll be opening the floor to requests now. Who wants to be the first one up? I'm sure we have a few brave souls in the audience tonight."

The guests murmured among themselves in hesitation. Clara didn't know what made her do it—the cocktail that allowed her instinct to pilot her actions, or regret of not climbing up on stage with The Doctor in Salt Lake City—but her hand shot up before she could give it a second thought.

A few people whooped, sparse applause careening her to her feet as she tried to locate the rationale behind this. The Doctor gave her a baffled smile as she downed the rest of her drink and handed him the empty glass. She was bound to throw her caution to the wind at some point. Better to do it now, before she seriously considered expanding her career and asking the man beside her to come along for the ride.

She would later recognize this as her method of stalling.

"There you go ladies and gentleman!" Rory exclaimed. Dust swirled around the lens of the projector machine, its pale light shining into Clara's eyes as she approached. "Please help me welcome to the floor Miss Clara Oswald, all the way from..." He covered the microphone with a hand and lowered his voice. "Where are you from?"

"London," she supplied.

"Clara Oswald from London everybody! And what will you be singing for us this evening?"

Twisting her mother's ring around her finger, she felt as if she were on a televised talent competition instead of a twenty-fifth birthday party. Leave it to her to over-complicate things. Nevertheless, she pushed aside her doubt as best she could and tried to focus. She and The Doctor had listened to music for hours in the TARDIS. There had to be _one_ song that she knew well enough to perform half-decently for a backyard of strangers.

Several pairs of eyes awaited her response. The Doctor gave her an encouraging thumbs-up from the sofa. Suddenly, she had her answer.

_What else?_ she thought to herself in amusement as she leaned towards the microphone and said, "' _Dancing Queen'_ by Abba?"

The cheers that erupted from the party put her more at ease, Clara relieving Rory of the microphone and fiddling with the chord.

"Oh, so you know that, then? Good, good. Forgive me, I don't really do this sort of thing. Feel free to sing along—actually— _please_ sing along, else I'll be regretting this decision tomorrow morning alongside a potential hangover."

Humored laughs arose from her audience, The Doctor's included. He wasn't surprised by her charisma up there—he'd been on the receiving end of that charisma since Monday morning, but he _was_ proud of her, even for something as minuscule as singing karaoke. In fact, as the music began to pour from the speakers, Clara grimacing at him comically from behind the microphone, he reminded himself how lucky he was to have fallen behind her in line at the airport. The way she conquered her fears was something even he couldn't emulate.

_"You can dance...you can ji-ive, having the time of your life_ —" Stars, she couldn't believe she was doing this. _"Ooh, see that girl, watch that scene, digging the dancing queen!"_

Her voice was breathy and by no means capital, but that wasn't the point of karaoke. In fact, the more she channeled her seventeen year-old self, prancing around her room and belting into a hairbrush, the more people joined in on the antic. A few of Amy's colleagues from work began singing along. A couple moved to the rhythm in one another's arms. The time she had now, on this unpredictable American trip, was short-lived, and she had no intention of regretting anything from here on out.

Amy shared the microphone with her on the second verse, soon pulling her husband into the mix. And it wasn't long before The Doctor grabbed Clara's hand and spun her around, wrapping his arms around her from behind as they swayed to and fro. The four of them shouted the lyrics into the skies, their dance moves unrefined and hilarious, but what other people thought of them mattered little in comparison to the joy they felt in being with another.

That kind of joy was invaluable, and Clara was intent on holding onto it for as long as she possibly could.

* * *

The party continued in a similar fashion. Karaoke transformed into a tour of the decades, The Doctor's homage to Elvis a stark contrast to Amy's brazen rendition of _'Fergaligious.'_ Clara ended up with two more drinks in her hand before capping off her quota entirely, as it was becoming harder and harder to filter herself. The wall that usually stood between her mind and her mouth was now semi-permeable, thoughts coming and going as they pleased. The last thing she needed was to say something she didn't mean to—especially in regards to her relationship with The Doctor and the direction it was heading, whatever direction that was.

In search of a glass of water, the young writer stumbled into the kitchen, where she found Amy staring at her birthday cake with a troubled expression. The red-head had disappeared into the house a few minutes ago, insisting everyone that she was fine, though now she looked anything but. Clara remained in the entryway for a moment.

"Thinking of keeping it all for yourself?" she asked gently, nodding towards the cake. Amy started. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, that's alright. I didn't see you there," Amy replied. Her smile lacked its usual luster. "Did you need anything?"

"A glass of water, please. I think I've had a bit too much to drink."

"It happens to the best of us," she conceded, and reached towards the kitchen cupboard.

Clara approached the sink, where a window provided ample view of the party outside. The Doctor had treated himself to three Michelob Ultras in the past hour (he'd opened all of them using his sonic, much to the chagrin of his friends) and was now with Rory in a half-circle of people, flailing his arms above his head in a manic dance move of his own invention. She chuckled at the sight of him, wondering how on earth she'd been lucky enough to meet such a spectacle of a human being.

"I think it's safe to say that everyone's having a good time," she observed as Amy handed her the glass, giving a pointed look towards The Doctor.

"Thank you, though I can't take the credit for it," she said with a laugh. "It's my husband that does all the planning."

The two women watched Rory dance. His method mainly consisted of snapping whilst stepping side-to-side. "How long have you two been married?"

Amy let out a labored sigh, her face scrunching in deep concentration. "Well, we officially tied the knot when we were twenty-one, but I've seen him almost every day since primary school. Can you imagine? You think you'd grow tired of a person after nineteen years."

Clara chuckled. "And did you always know he was the one for you?"

"God, no. Up until sixth form, I could've sworn he was gay. He never sought other girls, and I was too daft to notice him paying any attention to me." Grinning to herself, she said, "It's funny. I made this pact with him when I was thirteen. I said that if I was still single by the time I turned twenty, I'd marry him and have his babies on the spot. Course, that was back when I thought twenty meant you were ancient."

"Well, you have the first half of the pact down, which is the most important half," Clara pointed out.

Amy gave her another smile, but this time it felt forced, pained even. Unsure of what she said to trigger such a response, Clara watched as the red-haired woman turned away from the counter and back towards the cake. _'Happy 25th Birthday, Amy!'_ was written in sugary pink frosting, the cheery message an antithesis to the anguish now twisting on her face.

"...is something wrong?"

It was as if Amy were trying to hold herself together for the sake of being a good host. Sucking in a breath, she rearranged her expression into one of mild but unconvincing composure.

"Nothing. It's not important, really."

Clara fought the urge to prod. She really did. But it was difficult to move past the pain Amy was evidently going through without doing anything at all. What if The Doctor just walked past her that night in the airport? What if Emma just drove past them on the highway without looking back? What would be of her now if everyone just _moved_ past? The thought didn't sit well with her.

"Perhaps it's not my place," she began. "But I just want you to know that I'm here if you need someone to listen. And just because something is sad or unwanted doesn't mean it's not important."

In any other instance, she'd have kept her mouth shut. But this was the birthday girl, the one person in the entire room who deserved to be happy in this instance. That, and Clara was sufficiently drunk.

Amy nodded, as if expecting her to say as much. Plopping down on a bar-stool, she raked her fingers through her long hair and exhaled. "Rory and The Doctor have been teasing me for weeks now because I've been dreading turning twenty-five. They think it's because I'm scared of growing up. Getting tired. Or whatever you do when you become _actually_ , properly ancient. I haven't told them the real reason yet. I know I'm still young. And I _know_ that age is just a number, but..."

"...but?" Clara leaned forwards, her mind trying to connect the dots with little to no avail. Amy's eyes darted around the room as if in search of something to better illustrate her thoughts, but was met with only dirty dishes and abandoned solo cups. She pursed her lips to one side and tried to explain herself.

"My aunt—Sharon _._ God, I despise her—told me the prime age to conceive is twenty-five to thirty. And me, being antagonistic as always, thought it was complete bullshit. But there was always that one part my brain that believed her," she said. Her voice lowered. "Course, there's no point in counting my age anyways; several trips to the fertility clinic have already confirmed me of that."

It was her subtle yet emphatic way of getting her point across. And once Clara understood, her expression couldn't help but fall. Amy gave her a warning stare; the last thing she needed was one shred of pity from the pretty stranger. A thin layer of it was already wedged between her and everyone else she knew. It thickened each time one of her coworkers talked about their children, or pulled out photographs of their most recent sonogram. She might as well have had _'INFERTILE'_ stamped across her forehead.

"It's just...whenever I think about the age I am now, it's like this constant reminder of what I'll be missing out on," she continued, frustrated with herself. "I will have to watch that window between twenty-five and thirty close without ever going through it. And that _really_ gets to me sometimes."

Clara looked down at her shoes, keeping her consolations on a tight leash as per Amy's unspoken entreaty. "How long have you known?"

"I found out when we moved here. Rory and The Doctor have been the best throughout all of it, but I think it bothers me more than I let on." She shrugged her shoulders with a helpless sort of smile. "I grew up with two boys. I don't readily reveal these kinds of things."

"There must be other options, though. A surrogate, adoption maybe?"

"We've completed home study, actually. Been on our agency's waiting list for about three years," Amy replied. It was more of a fact than a complaint. "Is it crazy of me to think that _I'm_ the one to blame for those three years?"

"I would say yes, but I'd be the biggest hypocrite if I said I didn't get wrapped in my own head sometimes," Clara sympathized. "How so?"

"I keep thinking that maybe I should've picked a more respectable career. You know, to make ourselves more appealing to expecting parents. I could've at _least_ done that for Rory. I mean, what else am I supposed to do when I can't give the person I love most the one thing he's wanted all his life?"

"Okay. I'm by no means close enough to you to say this," Clara forewarned, alcohol presiding over her better judgement. "But I think the one thing he's wanted all his life is _you_. _You_ wouldn't be Amy Pond if you were a doctor, or a lawyer. Nineteen years you've spent together! That has to count for something."

Amy smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thanks. I know you'd much rather be enjoying the party than comforting the strange lady moping over her own birthday cake. I'll be fine, I promise. I'm probably just tired, or worse, _hormonal_." Frowning, she added, "That's not something you say to someone you just met, is it?"

They stared out the window as The Doctor began gyrating to the beat of a song Clara heard on the radio but never paid attention to.

"At this point, I don't think there are any guidelines."

"God, I need more female friends," Amy groaned, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. "You know, when every little girl knew the words to _'Beauty and the Beast,'_ you want to know what I knew? _'Bohemian Rhapsody.'"_

"It's a good skill to have."

"Not as a seven year-old!"

The two women began to laugh, The Doctor and Rory's ridiculous dance moves only amplifying their good spirits. Clara was glad, and maybe even a little stunned, that Amy chose to confide in her. She could tell that she trusted whomever The Doctor invited into her home, and suddenly wondered if he'd invited anyone else before. Surely The Doctor had attracted many a stranger along his travels; she'd be a fool to think otherwise.

"Okay," Amy began, turning towards Clara with an impish look in her eye. "You have to tell me what's going on between you and The Doctor. Don't think I've forgotten, despite your impressive ability to comfort me when you're drunk."

Clara figured her mere presence here would be the cause of some bewilderment for The Doctor's two close friends. "Honestly, your guess is as good as mine. This whole thing started as a ploy to get to New York, but it ended as something completely different."

She recounted to Amy of that night he approached her in the airport café, of how her pulse spiked as he facetiously bantered with two criminals in Reno, Nevada. She told her of their ongoing inside joke of being a newlywed couple to get discounts at their rest stops and the instinctive urge to snog him appearing somewhere down the line. She even told her of their incident on the Interstate, how seeing The Doctor injured and passed out was the most terrifying thing she'd ever faced on a trip.

"That man," Amy said under her breath. "He could break a limb and pass it off as a mere scratch."

"All I know is that I don't want to let go of this, ever. My worst fear is that we'll both walk away from this and forget. He'll become the doctor he's always meant to be, I'll keep writing and go on to do God-knows-what—I'm having a bit of a crisis at the moment—we'll send each other Christmas cards, and that'll be the end of it."

Amy snorted. "Christmas cards?"

"Flings send each other Christmas cards," she reasoned.

"Is that what you think it is?" Amy asked, doubtful. "A fling?"

"To _me,_ it's anything but," Clara countered. "But what if it doesn't work out? What if this thing between us can only exist now? There's little else for two strangers to do in a car for two days except drive, snack and, if you're smitten, _occasionally_ snog."

"Well, you won't know unless you try," Amy said in amusement, gazing out the window at the friend whose happiness she worried about from time to time. "And judging by the way he introduced you, I think your chances are rather good."

"You think so?"

"The Doctor won't introduce anyone to us unless they matter to him in some way, shape, or form. I hardly got a word out of him in med-school. Rory and I were frustrated about it for years, but it's made us realize that when someone _does_ come along, to pay attention." She gave Clara a reassuring smile. "I know you're worried about the future and things not working out, but you shouldn't fret over things that haven't happened yet."

Funnily enough, she remembered The Doctor telling her something similar. It was why they had a checks and balances system put in place. To intervene each other when it was necessary.

"I needed that. Thank you."

"Anytime," she promised.

Clara finished off the rest of her water and placed her glass in the sink. "Okay. No more doubting ourselves about waiting lists and prolonged relationships. _You_ have a birthday cake to devour. And I'm fully intent on helping you out."

"Agreed," Amy said with a sigh of relief, glad to have made a friend in the young traveler. Rory would always be the one she turned to when she needed to vent or have a good cry, but it was nice to have a new perspective. It reminded her not to take for granted the strength that kept them together for nineteen years. "Fetch the candles for me, will you Clara? They're in the drawer right next to you."

Pulling the drawer open, Clara retrieved the zip-lock bag and frowned at the twenty-five individual sparklers inside.

"Are you really going to light all of these at the same time?"

"Risky, I know. You wouldn't _believe_ what The Doctor did at my twenty-first birthday."

* * *

Closer to midnight, guests began trickling out the front door, and by two in the morning, the last of them had ordered a cab home. Clara retreated into the house sometime around one, Amy insisting her that she needn't tidy up despite her efforts of doing so. Three-thousand miles hadn't lessened the young woman's hospitality, but her tendency to stare off into space told Amy that she was in dire need of a good night's sleep. Settling her in the guest bedroom, she was out like a light before Amy even closed the door.

"I set up the futon next to the bed," she said quietly as The Doctor came through the back door with a black trash bag in hand. "I figured it'd be more comfortable than the couch, and since I didn't really know what the sleeping arrangement was between you two—"

"The futon's fine, Pond," he reassured her with a tired smile. "At this point, we're used to sharing small spaces."

Upon a suggestive eyebrow raise, he sputtered, "I mean, since we were in the TARDIS for two days, and didn't think it practical to rent separate rooms wherever we went, I just—we—oh, shut up."

Amy only smirked, gathering an armful of plates and plastic cups and tossing them into the bag. They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, clearing the living area of the party that had ended only minutes before. It wasn't until they stacked the board games back onto the shelves when she said, "Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for coming."

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," he replied, pulling her into a hug. The thing about lifelong friends was that it was so easy to be around them. There was no pretense, no formalities, just the comfortable familiarity that was comparable to climbing beneath the covers after a long day, or feeling the sun on your skin after being inside for too long. The Doctor wished he could keep that familiarity with him forever, but thought better of it. He needed to grow from his younger self, and plus, reuniting with his best friends was always more gratifying this way.

They helped Rory disassemble the projector outside and called it a day, the couple bidding The Doctor goodnight as he retreated into the hallway where the guest bedroom was. Creaking the door open, he was amused to find that Clara kept to one side of the bed, as if expecting him to occupy the other. Prying his shoes off, he walked sock-footed into the room, the gentle glow from the bedside lamp spilling over her hair, her slightly parted lips. Placing a gentle hand atop of her head, The Doctor ran an affectionate thumb over her forehead before lying down next to her. They were still in the same clothes from that morning.

Letting out an amused breath, The Doctor retrieved a pillow from the futon, tucked it beneath his head, and turned off the lamp.

It was the best sleep they'd gotten in a long time.


	20. Ready As I'll Ever Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are friends, at the end of the road! In all honesty, I need to pinch myself to believe it. This story is truly a labor of love; it's the first one in years I've been able to write from start to finish, and I'm grateful to have experienced it with such a lovely group of readers. I made sure to tie up all loose ends in this chapter and, just for fun, included a quote/passage that I think sums up The Doctor and Clara's relationship rather nicely. Again, thank you for your patience, encouragement, and kind words, and I hope you enjoy!

_"Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.  
_

_Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being in love, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over after being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident."_

_—_ Lois de Bernières, _Corelli's Mandolin_

* * *

"Our luggage is here!" Clara cried, stepping out onto the front porch and stretching her limbs towards the cloudless sky. Three days had passed since Amy's birthday party, and while she was grateful the former model had extended her closet to her for the time being, she was happy to have her own clothes back. Three full days of long-legged pants had made her the center of good-humored pity in the Pond household. Dragging the blade of her scissors down the smaller of the two UPS boxes, she was relieved to find her red suitcase stored safely inside.

She grabbed the handle and lifted it from the package, a soft _thud_ landing to her immediate left. Eyes drifting downwards, she was surprised to find that a daily newspaper had fallen from the box and onto the wooden floorboards. The front page headline had her leaning in closer.

_'A RACE AGAINST TIME: ILENE TOWERS HELPS YOUNG OUT-OF-TOWNERS BACK ON THEIR FEET!'_

The photograph, a grainy image of the car mechanic leaning smugly on the hood of the TARDIS, put a wide smile on Clara's face as she picked up the newspaper and scanned the lines of the endearing piece.

 _'_ _As of now, I don't know if they got to where they needed to be,' Towers said when asked of the traveler's cross-country endeavors. 'But I like to think that they did. And I like to think that I was a part of that story.'_

"...Doctor, you have to read this. We made the front page!" she said upon entering the house, The Doctor indulging in his own reading at the kitchen table. He was quick to lower the screen of Amy's laptop, flashing her an unconcerned smile like a child caught with a jar of sweets. She lowered the paper in cautious distrust.

"What are you doing?"

"Who, me?" he asked her innocently, removing his round spectacles. "Hardly anything—just a bit of light reading to jog the brain."

Circling the table and nudging his hip with her own, Clara planted herself halfway on The Doctor's chair and lifted the computer screen. The soft colors and clean graphics of _'101 Places to See'_ greeted her like an old friend. It startled her. She studied the screen for several seconds, somewhat unconvinced that it was still on the Internet for all to see. To her, Oswin—and all her familiarity—had disappeared with the pieces of her broken laptop. Now, everything came flooding back in the form of widgets and witty titles. The entry he was currently reading was one of her favorites. _'Junior Entertainment Manager: Star-Ship Alaska!'_

"I loved that gig," she said with a light laugh. "Nina and I worked a children's theater on a summer cruise-line. We basically babysat for five hours while the parents tested their fate on the casino deck."

"You said here that one of the kids contracted a respiratory infection."

"Did I?" She squinted at the screen. "Oh, that's right. Poor Timothy. He still managed to hit the high notes, though."

The Doctor's eyes filled with an emotion she couldn't quite place. Was it pride, awe, or a mixture of the two? He gazed at her like one might a book they'd fallen in love with upon only reading the first chapter, fingers turning page-by-page in a quest to reveal the unknown. Seconds passed before he realized he'd been staring for too long, and chuckling nervously to himself, he said, "I thought I'd, uh...see what Tasha Lem was missing out on."

Gratitude crossed Clara's face as she looked to her lap and fiddled with her mother's ring. The scrapes on her fingers were patching together slowly. "No one really knows I'm Oswin except my dad and Nina. And you, of course. They think it's fascinating that I lead this sort of double-life."

"What made you decide to do it?"

"Write under a pseudonym, you mean?" The Doctor nodded. "Privacy, at first. I didn't want any of my schoolmates finding out what I did with my free time. As Oswin, I could say what I wanted to without worrying what other people thought of me. Now, I think I keep it because it's a brand I've made for myself."

The more she thought about it, the more she felt it was time for a change. Oswin provided her with strength, something she needed at the age of sixteen. But since then, and most especially throughout this trip, she'd discovered that she had plenty of strength herself. The strides she'd taken since San Francisco were evidence of that. Perhaps wiping the slate clean and just being _Clara_ was enough for her.

"Morning," Rory yawned as he descended the stairs in his robe and slippers. He snorted upon seeing the two travelers in such close proximity to one another; it reminded him of when he and Amy were teenagers. Tottering over to the fridge, he stared at his limited options in disdain and asked, "Omelets and coffee for the third time this week?"

"You'd think we'd have ran out of eggs," The Doctor muttered.

"Omelets sound perfect Rory, thank you," Clara replied. She stood from the chair and stretched again. "As for the coffee, I think I'll pass."

The Doctor was stunned by her response, a faint smile appearing on his lips as she warned him, "Don't look impressed yet. I'm expecting symptoms of withdrawal by noon."

"I'll make you a tea," Rory offered instead, fetching the kettle from the cupboard just as his wife walked into the kitchen.

"Oh, your luggage finally came in!" Amy exclaimed when she saw the giant UPS packages stationed by the front door. Her disheveled appearance was no less relaxed than her husband's; dressed in a silky pink robe and striped pajama bottoms, she hid her yawn behind the back of her hand and murmured, "Thank goodness. I'm all for you borrowing my clothes, Clara, but the height disparity is just ridiculous."

"Agreed. I don't intend to wear your clothes ever again." Even now, in one of The Doctor's spare t-shirts with ' _Oxford University'_ screened onto the front, she looked to be donning a caftan. "Or anyone else's, for that matter."

"I thought you liked wearing my shirt," The Doctor said in disappointment.

"I do like it," she defended, folding her knees beneath the fabric. It hardly even stretched. "I can use it as my own personal parachute. Hibernate in it during the winter."

"Did anything else come in the mail?" Amy called from her place by the Keurig.

"A few bills, I think," Clara replied. "I put them on the counter."

Amy began brewing a fresh cup of coffee and padded over to the stack of mail, flipping through a series of bills and gardening catalogs before a creamy white envelope caught her attention. She read the return address and felt her heart skip a single, skeptical beat.

"Did you see this?" she asked her husband. Rory confirmed that he hadn't. "It's from Monica and the agency."

Amy explained to The Doctor and Clara that Monica was their adoption social worker whom they've been in contact with for the past three years. She managed to keep her expectations at bay whenever they corresponded with her—usually it was an email thanking them for their patience, or a phone call reassuring them that their efforts were not ignored—but it seldom came in the form of a letter. She swiped her nail across the top of the envelope and tore the letter out.

The others must have detected a change in the air, for they all quieted to watch Amy's procession back and forth the kitchen tiles. Her voice was trembling but discernible as she read aloud, " _'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Williams, I am pleased to inform you that we have found a potential match for your family and are willing to take the next step in the adoption process..."_

"Oh my god," Clara breathed.

The Doctor was grinning from ear to ear. "It's about time."

" _I have attached a letter from the expecting mother and encourage you to contact me as soon as possible_ _—"_ Amy flipped to the next page, the steady hand of her husband now kneading at the tension that suddenly formed between her shoulder and neck. She announced the information as it presented itself. "The mother's name is Louisa Bennett...she's due in February with a baby boy...and she saw our video profile and would love to meet with us!"

Amy's elated scream had The Doctor and Clara on their feet in an instant. Rory cried in triumph as he pulled his wife into his arms, shocked and teary-eyed that their prayers were finally answered. Three years they had waited for this, their hopes of becoming parents a quiet yet burning flame in the midst of their hearts. They attended conference upon conference, pored over parenting books left and right, and constantly worked to improve and prepare their home for a family. Now, a new road stood before them—and judging by the enthusiasm of a Miss Louisa Bennett—the journey looked to be quite promising.

"Wait!" Amy yelped, retracting herself from the celebration that had formed in her kitchen. She held the letter close to her chest and winced. After all, nothing was set in stone, and she was willing to tread carefully if it meant readying herself for any potential disappointment. "I will _not_ get my hopes up, you hear me? _No_ hopes are going up today! There are still a lot of interviews to be had and paperwork to do, and _decisions._ Big, scary, life-altering decisions. What if she decides on another couple? What if things don't work out in the end? Or...or..."

Clara stopped her with a stern look, the expression parallel to the one Amy held a few days ago in this very spot. It was a reminder to take a deep breath. To listen to her own advice. _"I know you're worried about the future and things not working out, but you shouldn't fret over things that haven't happened yet."  
_

"Oh, what the hell! We're having a baby!" she shouted into the ether, grabbing her husband and planting a firm kiss on his lips. "I need to call my parents."

With that, she dashed upstairs to retrieve her cell phone, her giddy laughter trailing behind her as she went. Clara embraced Rory as he tried to compose himself, The Doctor's arms encircling them both as they allowed the unending joy to overcome them. The man at the center of their group hug was going to be a father, and a great one at that. In fact, The Doctor believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that his best friends would only be the best of parents. The way they looked after him, even from thousands of miles away, was a testament to that.

"I say we propose a toast!" The Doctor said, well-aware that eight o'clock in the morning was far too early for champagne but too buoyant enough to care. The rest of the party posed no further argument.

"You know what? I'll do you one better," Rory proposed when they released one another. He returned to the fridge, and standing on his tip-toes, retrieved from the top of it a wicker basket with a blanket tucked beneath the handle. He looked to his two guests with a bright smile. "Anyone up for a picnic?"

* * *

 _"'She pulled the man into a passionate kiss, knowing very well he might never be the one she fell in love with years ago, but cherishing the one she stood with now on the dusty sands of Bad Wolf Bay. Wind roared in her ears as he wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her closer. It would be years before she stopped mistaking that wind for the wheezing and groaning of the time machine. But as she parted from him, her hand pressed beneath the layers of his coat, Rose Tyler felt the steady beating of a heart nestled beneath her palm._ _Singular, loving, but most of all, human.'"  
_

The spine of her book cracked shut. Clara dabbed a napkin beneath her eyes and turned to face her audience of one. "Stars, are you crying too?"

Rory wiped his face with the heel of his palm. "What? No. No, I'm not crying."

"It's okay to cry over this sort of thing, you know," she offered, setting the novel down on the picnic blanket. "I cry whenever I watch _'Pride and Prejudice.'_ "

"The one with Keira Knightley? God, that's such a good movie."

The group had sprawled their picnic blanket across a rocky clearing of Central Park for brunch, chicken salad sandwiches, apples, and a bottle of champagne being passed between them as the sun warmed their skin. The Doctor and Amy had since abandoned their partners to feed the ducks, Clara and Rory staying behind in the comfortable company of one another. Clara asked if it was okay that she read the last chapter of _'Withering Rose,'_ and Rory suggested she read it aloud, listening quietly to her impassioned narration whilst keeping an eye on the two misfits as they toddled on the bridge ahead.

"Do you remember, Doctor," Amy said, tearing off a piece of bread and tossing it into the water below. "When you'd run away for weekends at a time in medical school?"

"I wasn't running away. You knew exactly where I was at all times."

"Yes, through very cryptic and indiscernible voicemail messages. _'I fell into a fire-fall today. All is well!'_ What the hell is that supposed to mean?" The Doctor pouted at her substandard impression of him. _  
_

"I didn't mean to _fall_ in, I only wanted a closer look. It's one of nature's greatest phenomenons! When the setting sun hits the water just right, it illuminates the waterfall's upper reaches. Not to be mistaken with the 1872 Yosemite Fire-Fall, where burning hot embers poured from Glacier Point—now _t_ _hat_ would've been disastrous."

"That's not the point I'm trying to make," Amy said, however amused. "You were always restless whenever you stayed in one place for too long. You couldn't stand it. You were a graduate student with the attention span of a five year-old."

"Well, of course. There's no point in being grown-up if you can't be childish sometimes." The remainder of his bread _plunked_ into the lake, casting water rings in every direction. Two ducks swam up to the morsel curiously. "Why? Have I changed in any way?"

"Not in the slightest. Even if you did, I wouldn't have wanted you to." Resting her elbows on the parapet, Amy trained her eyes on the curve of the creek as it disappeared beyond the bend and into the sun-soaked trees. She eventually cast a glance to her left, where Rory and Clara were engaged in quiet, amiable conversation. Was it strange of her to think that the two were alike in more ways than one? "It's just that...for the past four years, you looked as if you were just sort of wandering about. Now, you look like you finally know where you're going."

The Doctor must have met her line of vision, for his expression dissolved into one of complete and unmistakable adoration. How easily Clara fit into the puzzle of his friends, his family. How mind-boggling it was that some people spent years searching for the surety he felt in being with her. The Doctor wasn't certain about a lot of things. But he _was_ certain about Clara, however closely he kept that thought to himself. His only hope was that a small part of her thought the same.

"When you and Rory moved here, you told me to never travel alone," he said.

"I did. See what happens when you take my advice?"

The Doctor smiled, prying his gaze away from Clara and focusing it on the patches of trees that revealed bits and pieces of the New York City skyline. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pleated dockers. They were olive green, and paired nicely with a button-up and pair of oxfords. He felt it necessary to dress up for Amy and Rory's occasion, and—on a more personal level—the question which he was to ask Clara when the right moment arose.

"I think I'm going to ask her out on a date."

Amy startled. It wasn't often those words left his lips. In fact, it was the most serious she'd ever seen him in regards to the subject. She couldn't help but laugh. "Was the whole of America not a good enough first date for you?"

"Do you think she'll say yes?"

"Are you kidding me? What makes you think she'll say _no?_ "

"I dunno. Her common sense. My inability to read her mind."

"She's in _love_ with you, you poor fool. Anyone with eyes can see it."

His mind returned to what Clara had told him at Wayfarer Industries. _"I think it's safe to say that I'm in love with you, too."_ That sentence alone lingered in his memory until it no longer sounded normal. It kept him up at night, sufficed him with hope like a lighthouse did a sailor. He knew no sane person could ever love somebody in a week. He knew that Clara, with her desire to travel and continue writing, might venture into a future without him in it. _Being_ in love and actually loving someone were two entirely different things. Whether or not they could do both was up for them to decide.

"Ask her, Doctor. Or else I'll be tempted to do it for you," Amy said with a reassuring smile, dropping the rest of her bread into the lake and slinging an arm around his shoulders. They walked back towards the picnic in the silence, the sound of Clara and Rory's laughter carried to them by a phantom wind.

* * *

"I have something for you."

The Doctor turned from his place by the stove, a wooden spoon stuck between his lips. He'd promised to keep an eye on the pasta sauce while Amy and Rory were upstairs, breaking the news to their relatives over Skype. Clara's hands were behind her back.

"For me?" She nodded. "Is it your famous soufflé recipe? Because I'd never do it justice."

He'd bragged about her soufflé all morning to his two friends, leaving her in no other position but to make it for them on the night of their celebration as future parents.

"As if I'd ever tell you," she said with a smirk. "A baker never reveals their secrets."

She brought forth a small box and placed it into his hands, color warming her cheeks as he beheld the present with a child-like curiosity. Walking to the sink and turning on the faucet, she scrubbed her hands and tried to recite the ingredients she needed to begin baking. _Butter. Eggs. Salt. Vanilla._

"I found it at Westroads but forgot to give it to you. I know it's not much—in fact, it's a bit cheesy—but I thought it was as good a thank-you gift as any."

The Doctor watched as she tried to act nonchalantly about the entire thing, like it was anything but a big deal. But it was, at least to him. Seldom was he given anything of sentimental value—unless expensive liquor from former classmates counted as sentimental. His Christmas for the past four years consisted of non-denominational greeting cards from Oxford and the traditional crew-neck sweater from Amy and Rory. Needless to say, he was touched by the kind gesture, and lifting the lid off the top of the box, peeked inside. His eyes brightened in delight. "An American bow-tie!"

He grinned like an idiot as he ran his fingers across the crisp fabric. Everything—from the neat rows of stars on one side to the iconic red and white stripes on the other—made him want to put it on immediately. Unfolding his collar and removing the accessory from its box, he exclaimed, "It's a real bow-tie, too!"

"Do you like it?" Clara asked, wringing her hands together as she approached. He gaped.

" _Like_ it? I _love_ it—this is amazing! Thank you."

His broad smile filled his face and instantly put her worries to rest. She'd spotted the bow-tie in a department store window and stared at it for several moments before being asked if she needed assistance. Walking out with a shopping bag not a minute later, she wondered whether or not it was a good decision, if The Doctor would even wear it at all. She now bore a demure smile as he tied the accessory around his collar with ease, his fingers working swiftly as he pulled both ends of the tie into snug, even wings.

"Not bad, eh? What do you think?"

Pursing her lips to one side, she reached up on her tip-toes and readjusted the bow-tie, hands smoothing down his shirt until eventually coming to a stop at the place where his heart sat. The little distance between them made her lightheaded; she thought she would be used to it by now.

"Doctor..." Clara began, her voice quiet. "I've been meaning to ask you something."

He looked down to meet her gaze, a tinge of color appearing on his cheeks. "Yes?"

Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she tried to focus on his eyes. A siren wailed from a nearby street.

"Do you remember when I agreed to go on this road trip with you?" He nodded. "Well, when I did, I thought, _'Dear God, what did I get myself into?'_ I like being in control, or at least pretending that I am. I like knowing what comes next so I have enough time to avoid it if necessary. And you promised me none of that."

The Doctor let out an amused breath as he tucked back a strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes. She leaned into his touch with a small smile and continued. "I was afraid we'd get lost, or break down in the middle of nowhere. I was afraid we were too dissimilar of people to ever find common ground. But most of all, I think I was afraid I'd end up liking the way I was around you."

She reached for his hand splayed across her cheek and inspected the shallow scrapes that remained. There was one near his wrist that was nearly healed. Another ran the length of his index finger. There was no doubt it would scar over. Bringing his hand to her lips, she pressed a kiss to the skin of his palm and folded over his fingers into a fist. Emma's words echoed in her mind. _"Hold on to what's good, Clara. Whatever that is to you."_

"I know this isn't how real life works," she admitted. "You and I lead entirely different lives outside of this, and I've been trying to prepare myself to go back to mine. But then you tell me how you want to rent out your own place and practice medicine, and I can't help but want to be there for you when that happens. I want to know if you're okay and help you when you're not. I want to sing with you in the car and listen to you ramble. Because I _care_ about you, Doctor. And if there's even the slightest chance that you might feel the same, then—"

He closed the space between them and kissed her. But unlike all the other times, there was no underlying question lingering in the air, no doubt over what the other wanted or how long this relationship would last. Because if there was anything they'd gathered in the two days they'd spent traveling to New York City, it was that time was too valuable, too fleeting, to leave unsaid unspoken. And Clara was fully intent on letting The Doctor know just how much she meant what she said.

The Doctor rested his forehead on hers, his voice breathless as he asked, "Clara Oswald, will you go on a date with me?"

Upon seeing the surprised look in her eyes, he added, "Not to imply that karaoke and drinks wasn't a date, but I want to take you on a proper one. One where we sit across from one another in a dimly lit restaurant and make fun of the menu. Or one where we go watch a film, though I'd probably talk to you the entire time. That's not to say that _you_ can't decide, in fact, it's probably better that you do. That is, if you say yes. If not, then that's completely fine—"

She interrupted him with a kiss, the rest of his words disappearing into thin air. He couldn't even remember them by the time she pulled away.

"Does that answer your question?"

The Doctor let out a low laugh, bending down and placing his hands on either side of her face as he pressed his lips against hers. It was as if a veil had been lifted, the sure promise of seeing him tomorrow and the day afterwards sparking an indescribable joy within her. A thrill of anticipation poured down Clara's spine. _I'm in love with you.  
_

Parting his lips with her own, her pulse quickened as he moved his hands down to grip her waist, the skin beneath her dress burning with the instant need for his touch, this want for him that had been building inside of her for days. All of her indecision on whether or not to give in, to allow The Doctor into her heart, came tumbling down, and she was wonderfully content with it. Clara let out a faint whimper as they staggered backwards, the backs of her knees hitting the kitchen cabinet. She was hoisted onto the counter not a moment later, a groan escaping The Doctor as she clasped her arms around his neck and allowed his tongue to caress hers in soft, gentle strokes. The pot on the stove-top continued to simmer.

"Mm, Doctor..." Clara murmured, pulling away from his kiss and staring at the stove-top in alarm. "You're going to burn it."

He spared a brief, if not unwilling, glance over his shoulder before grabbing the cooking timer to his immediate left. She shook her head in humored disbelief.

"Eh, still got ten minutes," he said, tossing the timer aside and meeting her lips once more.

* * *

It was Clara's last day in New York City, and she was spending it in an open café with a notebook open before her. It was no Espresso Express, but it would do for the time being.

Her morning was full of tearful goodbyes and warm embraces. Delighted to hear of The Doctor and Clara's confirmed relationship, Amy and Rory had outdone themselves in welcoming her to the family, going so far as to organize a 'bring-your-girlfriend-to-dinner' night, in which they prepared a roast and pored over their best friend's childhood photographs on the living room sofa. The Doctor was both grateful and mortified by the display.

 _"If they're treating_ me _as one of their own,"_ he joked with Clara after they'd gone to bed. _"Then God knows what they'll do when their son is of age."_

The terminal of John F. Kennedy International Airport was bustling with caffeinated flight attendants, dreary travelers, and the occasional electric cart. Clara observed the spectrum in silence, the edge of her pen tapping against her bottom lip in careful deliberation. She had since handwritten five more articles for _'101 Places to See,'_ and was impatient to buy a new laptop so she could publish them. Her travels with The Doctor had ignited her inspiration, the young man quite giddy to learn that he'd become her new muse. She advised him to get over himself, but hid her grin when watching him read her first drafts. She was particularly fond of the comments he penciled into the margins of her notebook, suggesting places where she should elaborate, reacting to her words in the form of underlines and lopsided smiley faces.

"Clara, look what I found!" The Doctor exclaimed upon returning to their table, the young writer lifting her head to see a white t-shirt splayed across his chest. It had a yellow taxi-cab screened onto the front beneath the words, _'I SURVIVED MY TRIP TO NYC.'_ She bit down her laughter as he did a twirl.

"Seriously? You bought one of those?"

"No, silly. I bought two," he said, reaching into the plastic bag slung around his arm. "I got you an extra small."

"Bless your heart," she replied earnestly, taking the souvenir and holding it up to her petite figure. "I love it. Thank you."

A waitress approached them and asked if they needed anything. The Doctor ordered a coffee with creamer; Clara asked for a refill on her tea.

"How's the caffeine embargo treating you?" he asked as she poured hot water into her mug, a fresh bag of camomile bashing about inside. She watched her beverage brew for a moment before giving him a reassuring nod.

"It's going well. I've been feeling less jittery, which is good. And who knew the benefits of an eight-hour sleep?"

The Doctor gave her a wry smile. "You need to help me get my sleeping schedule back on track when we return home; I have my first meeting with King's College Hospital in a week. I'd die of embarrassment if my consultant walked in on me dozing against a wall, or worse, on a gurney."

"That's right, you start your specialty training a week from now," Clara said, pride gleaming in her eyes. When The Doctor revealed to her that he'd chosen a London hospital to specialize in emergency medicine, she was skeptical at first. After all, the reason she'd met him in the first place was because he had his eyes on other places. But he'd reassured her that he was happy with his decision, that out of all the places he'd considered, London was the only one that gave him a reason to stay. Clara had turned a fine shade of red by that point. "Are you ready to go back to work?"

"In all honesty, I didn't think I was," he admitted, lifting his mug to his lips and taking a sip. "A small part of me just wanted to leg it."

"Leg it _where,_ exactly?"

"I dunno, Lake District? They do great scones in the Lake District."

"I'll add it to the list," she noted, flipping to a yellow post-it note stuck on the inside cover of her notebook. It was where they recorded a list of places they wanted to visit in the future, given they had the time and invested wisely. Cebu's Sinulog Festival and Miami's Little Havana were already at the top of the list. "So, why did you decide against it? According to Amy, you're infamous for your spontaneity."

He propped his ankle on a knee and considered her question carefully. "I think a part of me is eager to finish out what I started. I've had my fun, taken my time off. And seeing you work so passionately with your writing has reminded me of what I have to look forward to. I _love_ being able to make quick decisions and work on my feet. I love knowing that the things I've studied have the potential to help people. And as of next week, I'll finally be able to just that."

_It's a doctor's job to give people the chance at being happy._

"I'm proud of you," Clara said, trying to fend off her sentimental tears as she reached for his hand across the table. "I don't have a doubt in my mind that you're going to be brilliant."

The intercom chimed above them not a minute later, the voice of a woman echoing down the noisy terminal. _"Attention all passengers. We are now boarding flight number 6130 service to London. All passengers, please make your way to gate B-11. Again, all passengers for flight 6130 service to London, please make your way to gate B-11 at this time."_

"What do you think?" The Doctor asked. "Will they cancel on us again?"

"Better not," Clara warned, shooting daggers towards the ceiling. She closed her notebook and slid it into her backpack. "I may be able to handle America, but I'm not about to cross the Atlantic on anything other than that plane."

The Doctor stood up from his chair and lifted the handle of his carry-on. "Who knows? It might be fun. We can hitch a cruise-line, graduate to a cargo ship along the way. We can sing _'Castaways'_ by the Zac Brown Band!"

"We don't need to get lost at sea to sing _'Castaways,'_ Doctor."

Clara and The Doctor made sure to leave a tip for their waitress before departing for their gate, tickets at hand and luggage in tow. When they boarded their flight, they found a vacant row near the back, buckled themselves in, and listened quietly to the flight attendants' perfunctory safety demonstration. Clara knew this procedure like the back of their hand—they both did. But as she wrestled open the window to watch the airplane lurch forwards onto the runway, she couldn't help but see it through a new light. She knew The Doctor felt the same way when he interlaced his fingers through hers upon the arm rest. He squeezed once. Twice.

"Ready to go home?" he asked. She nodded, gazing out the window as the airplane began to pick up speed. That split-second feeling of weightlessness greeted her like an old friend when they finally lifted from the ground, and when it was over, gravity pressed her back into her seat.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

* * *

_ABOUT THE AUTHOR_

_Clara "Oswin" Oswald is a British author, English teacher, and travel blogger. She began writing under a pseudonym at the age of sixteen, her mother's travel guide "101 Places to See" the integral inspiration for her blog of the same name. She has since found success in baking souffl_ _és. "One For The Road" is her debut novel. Clara currently lives in the London area with her husband and two children._


End file.
